


Perplexity

by Beefgoddess



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: EO - Freeform, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Rape/Non-con Elements, Undercover
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-13
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-08 15:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1946820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beefgoddess/pseuds/Beefgoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She turns to her back and an arm-like dead weight shifts with her movement. She is suddenly struck with the realization of her physical state. I'm naked. And who is next to me?" Olivia and Elliot wake up in an unknown location, unsure of where they are or what has happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She awakens to her world spinning. She knows that her eyes are closed because her world is black as night, but her brain is doing a sickening whirlwind, like she's boarded a carousel that is going a hundred miles an hour and is unable to get off the ride, because her body feels like a useless sack of potatoes and won’t move, even if her mind commands for it to do so. She’d rub her eyes and shake her head to clear the nauseating vertigo, but that would require the ability to function like a normal human being. Right now, her muscles are essentially the equivalent to Jell-O and she cannot for the life of her remember why she feels like this.

What went on last night? What the hell did I do and why did I let myself get black-out drunk? She wracks her brain, sifting through the dense fog infiltrating her usually eidetic memory, trying and failing to recall the events of the previous night while squeezing her eyelids together to ward off the increasing sunlight creeping into her face. Too much thought seems to set the hangover jackhammers off in her brain. Too much thinking.

She feels another bout of sickness roll over her in waves, stealing her breath from her and causing her body to break out into a cold sweat. Her face washes over in icy panic. She knows she’ll be head first into a toilet bowl if she is not careful and doesn’t stay still. Turning her head, moving her arms, hell, opening her eyes will bring whatever still resides inside of her to the back of her throat and then it’ll just be over from there. But even if she doesn't move, the inevitable will indeed happen on its own, and she may just end up hurling over her shoulder and onto the ground next to her. Can’t let that happen.

Olivia attempts to move herself to her left side, but can’t get her body in motion. She sighs in order to distract herself and swallows some of the nausea down, opening her eyes a crack. The light is like a hot, searing knife slicing into her skull. Every single part of her body is sluggish, sore, wobbly. She moans and slaps a hand to her forehead, cursing the devil liquor. She should know better.

Fate is tempted; she feels bile bubbling to the surface of her esophagus. She needs to move now or she will spew everywhere. It is not going to be down the front of her or in her general vicinity where she will have to mop up her own puke afterward. Nothing worse than cleaning up vomit when hung-over. She’s not usually a sympathy puker, but she’s never really tested that theory after a wild night involving drinking to a stupor.

She turns to her back and an arm-like dead weight shifts with her movement. She is suddenly struck with the realization of her physical state. I’m naked. And who the hell is next to me? Her eyes shoot open despite the pounding headache and she dizzily stares at the fingers draped over the curve of her bare waist. The hand limply hanging over her body is immediately recognized. The same long fingers, closely clipped nails, battle-worn knuckles, and blond-colored hair dusting over the top of the hand and adjoined forearm. These are the same hands she has watched for years peck away at desktop keyboards, pummel locker doors, and sometimes aggressively grab at suspects when the need arises. They are capable of such tenderness and violence, and here they are, draped over her.

This is not happening. What the fuck. Olivia’s desperate need for a toilet is renewed with this horrifically forceful, sudden insight. She is lying next to the same man she has been too afraid to even fantasize about in privacy without feeling ashamed of herself for even insinuating a scenario involving the disruption of his tenuous marriage, or ripping apart her precinct over the intrigue and unending gossip. Submitting to the awful stereotype that partners of the opposite sex cannot keep themselves from going there. Here it lay, unfolding before her like some startlingly realistic dream—nightmare, actually—where she is the temptress seducing him into her bed.

But she can’t even recall how they have wound up in this situation. She picks up the limp arm with her right hand, briefly enjoying the warmth and striking familiarity of the lifeless limb, and tosses it backward. She ignores the disarrayed unsteadiness of her movements and the lethargy that threatens to turn her into a mess of quivering limbs on the ground, then pushes to herself clumsily to her feet and stumbles to one of three available doors.

The room is completely foreign, but her physical state screams for her to ignore this. She’ll deal with it when she isn’t going to choke on her internal organs.

She thrusts the door open, and is only mildly surprised by the walk-in closet before her. Olivia only stares for a couple seconds before viscous fluids flood into her mouth, alerting her of the inescapable consequence of heavy inebriation, and she vaults herself toward the door farthest left. She nearly trips over an ottoman in her zeal, but is filled with relief at the sight of the bathroom before her and she scrambles across the tiled floor, sinks down in front of the porcelain toilet, wrenches open the wooden lid and is able to find release for the sickness that she had woken up with. Her insides roll painfully as she retches, and she is shocked at the intensity in which she vomits. Her eyes and nose water uncontrollably and her diaphragm spasms as she coughs, gags, and spits miserably.

Finally after what seems hours of heaving, she sinks back when she feels confident that the bout is over; her naked rear meets the backs of her feet. Olivia does not care that she is clinging for dear life to some strange toilet, completely nude, and refuses to think about the man who is clearly still passed out in the bed regardless of all of the ruckus she’s made.

She finds herself nodding off with her cheek nestled on the toilet seat, but starts upright when she remembers the mess inside and finally reaches above her head to flush and closes the lid. Olivia pulls herself up with the help of the counter next to her and she grimaces at the sight of her body in the large mirror.

The glass extends from the far side of the wall by the door to the end of the counter just before it drops off to the small hidden place for the toilet, and is tall enough for her to view her entire body from about head to hip. Her dark hair is unkempt and stringy, her make-up is smudged, lipstick completely absent, her normally olive skin washed out. She has finger-shaped bruises around both of her arms, and at least four or five bite marks on her shoulders and her breasts. She stares at her dumbfounded expression, and then notices her hands are dirty and that she has dried blood underneath her fingernails. She shudders and has to brace herself against the counter. She ignores the cold marble against the warmth of her flesh, concentrating more on the sticky feeling between her legs and the accompanying soreness.

She feels a strong wooziness when her stumbling brain finally catches up and puts two and two together, but she shoves the growing sensation away to face the man who has apparently had his way with her—spent the night with her in something she always imagined as passionate but caring, not aggressive or rough, as evidence of her bodily wounds. She wants to be astounded, wants to be morally outraged, but for some reason none of this seems out of character for them.

Olivia opens the door and stares at the bed with her partner draped across the mattress in the same manner in which she left him—slumped untidily and dead to the world. His face is buried in the lush pillows, hardly visible in the plush white extravagance, and his arm that had been slung over her waist is still lying in a heap against the bed. She feels a little ashamed of the righteous anger she’d been consumed with when first viewing the damage done to her body. He shares some of the same types of wounds himself, so clearly he'd taken his own lumps. He has crescent shaped cuts and blue-tinted bruises sprinkled down his shoulders, and she’s pretty sure those are hickeys on the side of his neck.

She swallows hard, every joint and bone screaming in protest at her in chorus with her pounding head. How embarrassing.

Olivia lowers onto the bed, grimacing at the small movements, loathing how stupid she clearly was the night before. She feels old, too old to be acting this reckless, no less with Elliot, who she has worked side-by-side with for so many years without extending beyond a platonic level. Until now. She glances down at his other hand lying open just enough so that the gold of his wedding band glints off the sunlight. It makes her middle clench, which is definitely not what she needs when her stomach is precariously holding on for dear life as it is.

How had the two of them let it come to this? Olivia palms her forehead, swiping away the fine strands at the front of her hairline. She closes her eyes and tries to recall the previous night, but nothing surfaces. Judging by the condition of their bodies, it must've been one for the books. She's sure it was great, but it's quite ironic that she'd had mind blowing sex with the man she's dreamt about for years and is unable to recall any of it.

Pity.

Kathy Stabler’s face enters her mind and she grimaces at the guilt that is a slow growing burn that begins in her spine and continues to climb upward until she feels it in her throat. This is guilt, she's sure. There is a line, and she always promised herself—and the city of New York—that she would never, ever cross it. Marriage, especially his marriage, was sacred. That one truly honest thing in her life that represented peace and happiness. And she had placed herself right smack-dab in the middle of his family and soiled it.

She does not let the remorse set in too long, since she is still confused by the situation she is in. She lets her eyes wander around the sunlit room, noticing perhaps for the first time that the space is completely alien to her. This is not Elliot's apartment, or some seedy, rent by the hour hotel. There's personal items, like a picture frame with strange, smiling faces in it and a few dry cleaning bags draped over a recliner in the opposite corner.

Where the hell are they? Why is her mind so fuzzy and why does she feel like she has fucked a jackhammer? Could it be that they had done such a thing?

Olivia turns her attention to Elliot who remains virtually comatose and ignores how her vision dances crazily with the shift of her head. She reaches out with a weak hand to poke at his motionless form. She pushes at his well-muscled bicep until she hears a disgruntled mumble filter through the bed sheets. He ceases to move or make a noise after a few seconds, so she yanks away the pillows, causing his head to flop lifelessly against the mattress. The irritation that creeps up at the base of her skull makes her feel more like herself. How can the bastard continue to sleep?

“Elliot,” she says, wincing immediately at how meek it sounds. She pokes at his arm again, and then waits for a reaction. His eyebrows dart into a frown, forming a crease down the center of his forehead, but he does nothing afterward. Olivia clears her throat and tries his name again. “Elliot!” It sounds stronger, which is much more satisfying. She moves closer to his sprawled form and taps at his cheek, then cups his jaw and wiggles his head back and forth to stimulate him into wakefulness. She peels back an eyelid when all else fails and he finally reacts by wrenching his head away.

The moan that escapes is incoherent and pitiable. His face changes and she can’t help but feel sympathy consume her when he grimaces and the color drains from the skin of his face. Olivia imagines that he probably feels about the same as she does at the moment.

“Come on, El,” she says, her hand unconsciously rubbing circles into his shoulder blade. “Let’s get you to the bathroom.”

First thing she needs to do is find their clothes, because she is not going to drag the man out of this bed in the nude.

Olivia glances around for her clothing, but the floor is surprisingly free of any that had been hastily tossed about during what she assumes was a drunken, frantic scramble to be rid of her outfit. The comforter will have to suffice. She stands on unsteady feet and wraps the blanket around herself. Her partner’s body is only covered underneath the bed sheet to hip level, and she forces her eyes away from the bare flesh. Her face feels hot and cold at the same time, and a heat rises inside of her in spite of it all.

Even in her condition, she has to practically drag him off of the bed, and he is no help whatsoever. His movements are slow and weak, and he does not say a word, probably for fear of getting sick in front of her.

Apparently, he drank far more than she had, because he has no coordination in his arms and legs, and can only open his eyes a crack. He leans into her frame heavily and she can feel him trembling with exertion. He does not seem to acknowledge that he is naked as the day he was born either. She staggers under his weight, but manages to haul him into the bathroom, then deposits him in front of the toilet. The smell that clings to the air from the previous bout of sickness makes her feel ill again, so she turns as quickly as possible back to the room, but not before closing the door. She pauses and hears his forceful retching and knows that if she sits for a minute longer concentrating on the sound, she’ll be doing the same. She supposes she probably is indeed a sympathy puker.

Olivia focuses on the task of finding her clothes, but she cannot see anything on the ground, nothing hanging off of the lavish furniture that surrounds them except the dry cleaning bags, nothing in the closet except a stranger’s wardrobe. She casts a wary look at the door she has not opened yet, wondering if she should take her chances and check it out, but she decides she should at least wait until her partner is done throwing up his spleen.

She finally decides that she stands a better chance having Elliot at her side, even in the condition that they are in. A shoddily wrapped comforter will have to suffice.

She hears the toilet flush, and a barely audible voice escapes through the crack in the door. “Liv?” He coughs.

Olivia pushes open the door slightly, feeling awkward and unusually shy at the sight of his form keeled over the toilet bowl. He is covering himself, but looks completely miserable and defeated, and the porcelain appears to be holding all of him up. Tiptoeing through the doorway, she drapes the thin white sheet around him, and he looks up at her through narrowed eyes with a combination of gratefulness and disbelief.

“Thanks,” he says, swathing the linen around himself, and then dropping his forehead to his available hand. “What happened?”

She leans into the counter, grateful for the barrier the comforter gives her from the cold surface. “I don’t really know.”

Elliot moves his head carefully, surveying the room, realizing possibly for the first time that it is unfamiliar. “Where are we?”

She shrugs. “Couldn’t tell you that either.” Their eyes meet, and he lets his gaze fall on the wounds that peek out from underneath the blanket.

“Is that what I think it is—” he starts, but she cuts him off abruptly.

“Yes.”

“Is it from—”

“Yes, Elliot.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, covering them with his hand again. “Oh, my God.” When he looks back up at her, she notices that his eyes are bloodshot and he’s starting to look a little green again. “Think you can get me my clothes?”

She chuckles humorlessly, and his head snaps up in astonishment, but he falters when he is overcome with dizziness. “I don’t even know where our clothes are.” She pulls the comforter tighter around herself. “Think you can get up and help me find them without puking?”

He shakes his head in derision, but lurches carefully to his feet, gripping the edge of the counter for support and stumbling briefly until he finds better stability. “What the hell did we do last night?”

Olivia creeps over to the unopened door, dragging the king-sized blanket across the ground. “Jesus, El. I think that much is obvious.”

He scoffs, looking wounded for a short moment. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I figured that one out myself.”

She sucks in a deep breath as she twists the knob, her police instincts firing on all cylinders. He positions himself at her side, readying for any kind of action, and she almost snickers at how ridiculous they must look. She swings the door open, and then peers down the darkened hall both ways before shaking her head at him silently to let him know she sees nothing.

At least they know that they are in someone’s house. Whose house it is remains to be seen.

~*~


	2. Chapter 2

Olivia can see Elliot’s jaw working and tightening, and she knows that he is trying to maintain his composure, although she can clearly tell he feels terrible in the pallid color of his face and the deep grimace etched there. She reaches out with one hand and touches his back. “El, you okay? You want to sit down?” The drunken escapade has rendered her exhausted, brain somewhat functional, yet punishing her with a headache as piercing as a knife blade.

“No, I’m fine,” he says pitifully.

Elliot steadies himself using the wall and shrinks away from her, choosing instead to lean into the side, away from her. She is only mildly put off by his reaction to her touch, mostly because she doesn’t have the energy or the fortitude to care—however, she is aware that he is dealing with some personal demons at the moment and needs some time to process the situation.

Her head pounds with every heartbeat and ruminating on her partner’s woes only makes it worse, so she tries to concentrate solely on the present issue and not on what likely transpired between them.

“Elliot,” she whispers. He promptly shushes her and takes hold of her arm with a grip shielded by his sheet. He gives her a warning look, something that tells her she’s stumbling into a topic he is not ready to deal with just yet.

“Let’s talk about it later, okay?” The earnestness in his eyes quells the growing bitterness that trickles up her spine.

She follows closely behind him despite the desire she feels to sit and talk it through, cringing at the minute sound of their blankets scraping against the expensive runner lining the hallway.

 

_She can’t stop herself from smiling as she allows him to lead her through the maze of darkened corridors and rooms. His hand is sweaty and their intertwined fingers are slick with the perspiration. He is stumbling a bit, and she giggles loudly when he almost knocks over a blue and white vase that looks like some artifact bought out of a China shop._

 

Olivia brings herself to a standstill at the brief recollection and the halt in her step causes the world before her to spin dangerously once again. Her stomach angrily protests, daring her into a second round with the shiny porcelain lieu she has just stepped away from. She places a palm against Elliot’s shoulder, and then leans her body into the wall next to them. “Hold on a second.”

Elliot turns quickly to catch her, but ends up brushing his hip into hers, and he pauses long enough for her to listen to his labored breathing. Being so close allows her to get a light hint of his day-old aftershave, a scent she is so well accustomed to that she associates the smell with him. She’s stopped in a pharmacy once and smelled numerous bottles of aftershave because she could have sworn she recognized it in the air.

It is barely noticeable, but still identifiable, and her mind plays with the familiarity to it by lacing it into a different kind of memory.

 

_They are sitting close. So close their knees are touching._

_She cannot stop snickering, and even inwardly scolds herself to quit acting like a fucking airhead. But she feels so damn great, which is something she doesn’t get to feel very often, if ever. She hides a noticeable grin in her hand and buries her covered face into his shoulder next to her. He smells a like some kind of indiscernible after shave that she can’t quite put her finger on; it wafts off of his skin and she moves her nose closer to his neck, nuzzling the sensitive surface._

_She knows that she is being ridiculous and completely inappropriate, but it’s as if she no longer has control over her body and is watching herself do these adolescent things in a detached way._

_He doesn’t appear to mind the attention at all, because his fingers trail down her leg until he tickles the inside of her thigh._

 

Olivia opens her eyes, consciously aware of the fact that she is still standing there in the hallway and has not said a word to her partner, who looks alarmed. He is peering at her face uncertainly, the blue of his irises brilliant in shade to the contrast of the red spider web around them. “You okay?” he asks, exuding palpable concern.

Her eyes drift down to his exposed chest, and she can’t help but notice the bruises he bears. Were the injuries they sustained from one another? A fight gone out of control, or from a particularly rough sexual encounter? She thinks back to the brief smattering of scenes that she may remember, but isn’t sure yet if what she is recalling are actual events intermittently infiltrating her brain or if they are fragments of a highly erotic dream. Elliot frowns at her, seriously worried, looking too pale for her liking.

“Liv?”

Olivia lifts her mouth into a lopsided grin and shakes her head once. “Sorry. Thought I was remembering something.”

“Anything important?” She replies with a no, and he holds her gaze a second longer before turning around and shuffling toward a lacquered door with an intricate doorknob. “What do you remember?”

Olivia raises her shoulders in a dramatic shrug. “I don’t really know, El. So far, just us stumbling around and laughing like a couple of idiots.”

He chews on his bottom lip, then turns back to the task at hand. “Well, my brain’s still in a fog. You think of anything else, don’t hesitate to tell me.”

She seriously contemplates divulging to him what she was beginning to recollect, but chooses to mirthlessly raises her eyebrows, since reminding him of their debauched rendezvous will probably only incite negative interaction. She instead prepares for whatever may come from behind the heavy panel of wood. Elliot yanks open the door only to reveal a tightly packed linen closet.

She breathes a quick sigh of relief. “A goddamn closet. How anti-climactic.”

Elliot snorts quietly, and then moves across the hall after gently pushing it shut. He opens another door and peers in, motioning for her to enter.

It is a room empty of any people, but looks like a master suite from the square-footage and magnitude of luxury. Before them is an enormous California king bed adorned in an overpriced bed set. Palm trees in the corners of the room in large pots that extend all the way to the ceiling. A flat-screen TV set into the wall. Olivia and Elliot creep in, careful to clear the area before officially relaxing. He explores an open closet while she stares into stranger’s faces hung on walls and sitting on tables. They all seem foreign to her, except for one. A young man, heavy-set, and non-descript European in ethnicity. His appearance is oddly familiar, but she can’t place why that is. Olivia squints and moves closer, trying to remember.

 

_She is looking down in her hands, where she holds a thick manila folder and is listening to her captain’s voice in her ear. The file is weighed down with a load of paperwork. A busy man full of priors, including multiple felonies and misdemeanors, including sex abuse, rape, sodomy, trafficking, drug possession, manufacturing, and distribution, but is considered by the FBI an unverified suspect in a string of unsolved international murders._

_She remembers the disgust that she feels as she stares at his mug shot. He looks self-assured and smug. He has no business appearing that pleased with himself and the revulsion she feels is a familiar and welcome sensation. She would love to personally wipe that arrogant smirk off of his face with a knee to his groin and steel handcuffs wrapped around his meaty wrists._

 

“Paul McKinney.”

Elliot is digging around in the closet, now adorned in a pair of jeans at least three sizes too big. A belt is cinched around his waist, and this only exaggerates the athletic slenderness of his form. “What?” he asks distracted.

Olivia backs away, fisting the blanket around her so she doesn’t end up dropping it, dread crashing down on her like a tidal wave. “I know whose house this is.” A dangerous sex offender is who this place belongs to, who has a preference for slipping women and girls date-rape drugs and having his merry way with them. He turns them into toys for him and his buddies to play with until they are done. And that’s just the mild stuff. That’s not including the purported kidnapping and sexual exploitation of women and children desperate for a chance to live in America.

A man who has evaded local and federal law enforcement for several years, leaving a trail of damaged, broken souls and messy drug operations from Brazil all the way to New York. A major supplier and distributor of GHB, Rohypnol, Vicodin, OxyContin and Oxycodone, crystal meth, heroin, and all sorts of other pharmaceutical drugs from South America to the States. He’s made it onto the FBI’s Most Wanted list at number five. Right up there with the Al Qaeda terrorists. “McKinney, Elliot. Paul McKinney.”

He freezes in his motions, and turns to her, his face a mask of horror. “The date-raping drug dealer?” Elliot throws a shirt over his head, then moves forward, touching her arm. His gaze holds onto the bite marks and bruising. “Olivia…”

She suddenly feels incredibly weak. “I need to sit down.”

Elliot helps her sit down on a nearby rocking chair, but she feels repelled by everything in this house. McKinney has been here, likely slept in the bed a few feet from her in kingly extravagance, worn the very clothes her partner is currently pilfering. “We don’t know anything, Liv.” He swallows hard, and then renews his search. She can’t help but wonder which reality would be more acceptable for them—him having an affair with his partner, or her getting raped. “For all we know, it could have been…” he stops, huffs a sigh, then continues, “well, me.”

“You usually this rough when having sex, El? Frankly, that much may just surprise me.” He cringes at her words and Olivia does not like that she hopes the soreness between her legs makes Elliot a cheater. “Look, El,” she says, playing with her fingernails. “What may have happened…I—”

“Liv.” He is facing her now, with a wadded up white cloth in his hands. He avoids meeting her eyes, finding it easier to inspect the shirt he holds instead his partner. “I know there’s a lot that needs to be said, but think we can discuss this later?” His skin flushes deep red in embarrassment, darkening with every word. “Put this on, at least until we find something more suitable.”

Olivia stuffs away the fear and devastation to observe the item, which turns out to be a size XXXL button-down dress shirt. Elliot moves away respectively, and she slides the thing on and fastens the front of it, shaking her head at the sheer size of the garment. “Could almost pass as a dress.”

He shuts the door and takes her hand, leading her back through the hallway. She’s almost too distracted by the strangeness of his palm touching hers that she nearly misses the clamor of laughter echoing up the staircase to the left of them. He tugs on her hand and they dart back into the room they encountered when first waking up.

Olivia’s heart is racing, but she’s more worried about her ass peeking out from the hem of the shirt than anything else. Then she remembers noticing clothes more appropriate for a woman in this room, so she disappears into the small space, leaving Elliot to keep watch. She rips the massive shirt off quickly, trembling at the abhorrence she feels for wearing McKinney’s clothes.

Upon further inspection of the wardrobe before her, Olivia realizes that the selection must belong to a teenager. They are all junior-sized apparel, all about a size too small for her taste. Not to mention dreadfully ostentatious and gaudy. She finally decides on a stretchy, black halter dress that sits at mid-thigh with well-positioned tears that show off the skin underneath. She looks into the mirror hanging from the door, and thinks that she looks like an old prostitute and hopes she’ll be able to locate at least a pullover or shawl. Fortunately for her sake, she finds a see-through scrap of clothing that passes for a sweater that she figures makes her appearance a little more suitable, then opens the door.

Her partner gives her a quick once over, trying desperately to hide a smirk. “Shut up,” she gripes. “Believe it or not, this is the least slutty thing in there.”

Elliot clears his throat, unable to suppress a muted snort, then pushes the bedroom open again and the two peer to the left where the laughter originated. “Think we should chance it?”

“Shouldn’t we try one of their phones first?” she asks, contemplating the sad fact that they are shoeless and unarmed. “We could call the precinct from one of the rooms.”

“No landlines. I didn’t see any.”

“Elliot, we have only looked in two rooms. They’re bound to have a phone somewhere.”

“You suggesting we go wandering from room to room until we find one?”

“So what do you suggest, just waltzing right down there into McKinney’s lap and hope he lets us leave?”

Elliot swipes his face in frustration. “What do you want to do, Liv, scale down the fire escape bare foot?”

“Sounds a hell of a lot better to me.”

He holds his hand up and she stops, forcing herself to listen. They stand still for what seems an hour, and they both determine the voices have ceased. “Come on,” he whispers.

The two slink down the staircase slowly, and they are elated to see that the foyer is empty, double doors unlocked. Elliot and Olivia break into a sprint and pause at one of the windows to the side, prepared to simply dart off as soon as they open the entrance. He has his hand in the air when a man clears his throat behind them.

“Nice outfits.”


	3. Chapter 3

Olivia’s body freezes, and she imagines her stomach shriveling and sinking to the ground in a pool at her feet after hearing someone behind them. The two detectives are like two deer caught in headlights, simultaneously surprised, knocking into one another tensely. They both swivel to face the individual speaking to them, who they assume is only the fugitive himself. She steels her nerves for the inevitable encounter.

Elliot shoots her a look of confusion upon further scrutiny, one that matches her own. The man standing in the foyer is definitely not McKinney, who is infamous for his large body frame, his imposing disposition. This kid is tall, gangly, and young, complete with a blissfully unaware expression on his face. McKinney is probably closer to the detective’s age, and dresses and acts like he is swimming in wealth and prestige. The kid standing before them is dressed like any run of the mill thug plucked from the gritty streets of New York. Despite gangbanger frontage, he does not appear nearly as menacing or cocky as the two had expected. “You ain’t ducking out early are you?”

Olivia watches her partner straighten to his fullest height, which is likely half a foot shorter than the stranger, and he takes a step forward, instinctively using his body as a shield between her and the kid. She studies the youth’s composure as she does before grilling a suspect in an interrogation room back at their precinct, sizing the kid up and discerning the way he carries himself. Is he defensive? A threat? On edge? Or is he relaxed? Something about him seems pretty harmless, and Olivia has a creeping suspicion—at least she hopes— that he does not know they are cops. She feels the tension start to dissolve a little. Elliot is not so easily convinced, because his muscles are just as rigid as before.

“You okay, man?” the kid asks, smiling slightly, like he’s holding in a hilarious secret and the effort to keep it from bursting from his mouth is almost painful.

Elliot assumes the role of absolute bewilderment and rubs his neck. She recognizes his attempt to play a character; they do this often, normally without effort in order to fool a suspect into confession or as one of their clever methods to retrieve information. “Well, not really. We woke up pretty sick.”

She nods, widening her eyes for effect. “And without any clothes.”

The kid nods, then beckons the two to follow him. “Well, don’t leave yet. Kim said your things are almost dry. You spilled a bunch of shit on them last night, and she thought it would be all right to clean them for you.” He narrows his eyes in thought. “Plus, you ain’t even met up with Paulie. That’s what you came here for, right?” He leads them into the kitchen and the detectives share a glance that says they have just hit a jackpot.

The kitchen is just as extravagant as all the other rooms, and even has a small TV implanted into the refrigerator. SpongeBob SquarePants mutely graces the screen. “Just to let you know, he don’t like making plans with people and have them back out,” he continues.

“Right,” Elliot surmises, leaning against the counter positioned in the middle of the room. “But waking up in a strange room, naked and hung over,” he smiles, faking sheepishness, “my first reaction is to get the hell out.”

The young man thrusts open the fridge and picks up a bottle of soda, grinning fiendishly, briefly reminding Olivia of a shark just about to snap his jaws onto his unassuming prey. “Sorry ‘bout that.” He steals a glance at her, eyes straying on her legs and chest too long for her liking. “You two sure acted like you enjoyed the Easy Lay.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” The kid grins, raising his eyebrows.

“What the hell is ‘Easy Lay’?” Elliot says in a firm tone, frown in place. Both detectives sift through their lethargic, hungover minds, thrown by the crass abruptness of the boy’s statement.

This makes the kid visibly uneasy, and he shifts on his feet. “You know—G.” As if they would. Olivia shakes her head in confusion, then something clicks into place in her scattered brain.

“You mean GHB?” she asks, and realizes that this would make perfect sense as to why they woke up like they did and why they both cannot remember a damn thing from last night. It would also help her better understand why they had just thrown caution to the wind when it came to keeping their partnership from drifting into the hazard zone. So they’d unintentionally fucked each other senseless and this boy and Paul McKinney had been laughing their collective asses off from the very beginning. Why would they expect anything different from the date-rapist or any of his cronies?

The kid nods, as if what he is saying should be obvious. “You didn’t know you was loaded? Paulie put it in your drinks right in front of you.” Both Elliot and Olivia force themselves to internalize their reactions, which is something they learned to do with years of experience in the Special Victims unit. They have become skilled at steeling their emotions so they do not appear vulnerable to the criminals they face, as well as maintaining their composure around individuals affected by the heinous offenses who may be sensitive to any kind of misplaced frown or smile, or even a tone of voice considered slightly too loud. Instead, the two of them pretend to be only somewhat offended. Olivia would love smacking this kid upside his head, first of all for being so damn young and screwing up his life by involving himself with a drug dealer, but mostly for acting as one of McKinney’s lackeys. Part of her wants to believe he is unaware that ‘Paulie’ is a horrible person, that he simply looks up to the man because of his assumed prestige and his money.

She pulls at the front of the sweater, feeling every bite mark on her skin. Put there apparently by Elliot’s intoxicated mouth. “No, we didn’t know,” Olivia states, making sure she sounds less aggravated than she feels. “In fact, we don’t even remember anything from last night. The GHB has a funny way of doing that.”

Elliot shifts awkwardly next to her, chuckling vacantly to appear casual, then wraps a stiff arm around her, which is the farthest thing from affectionate. He squeezes gently, pressing into already sore flesh.

_His fingers dig into the delicate skin of her arms. Guiding her body as she straddles him. She fights, shoving at his chest and shoulders. He falls back against a bed, surrendering to her control. She can’t help herself from devouring him, pulling the skin of his neck into her mouth, forceful in her actions._

The flashback is sudden, just like the others, and Olivia’s face feels like it has been scalded and the tips of her ears are burning. The experience is so vivid that she swears she can still taste his skin.

The youth apparently has no ability to pick up on any sort of minute nonverbal cues; he laughs raucously, even bending over and holding his stomach. “Oh, my God. That’s too bad, ‘cause you two were crazy as shit. No one would ever think you two would be so freaky.”

Olivia watches Elliot’s reaction to these declarations, and the man does not disappoint when his features momentarily wash over in horror, then turn to stone.

“What’s so funny?” a young woman asks as she saunters in, holding a small Maltese dog in the crook of her arm. She is practically as tiny as the furry little creature she carries, and Olivia deduces that the dress she had swiped from the upstairs closet must be hers. The girl’s knee high boots click against the tiled floor and Olivia finds herself staring in fascination at the four-inch heels, nearly so thin that the girl flirts with tumbling to the ground with every step. She notices the detectives and wiggles her eyebrows at them suggestively. “You’re awake.”

Olivia decides she has just had enough of not knowing what all the other party-goers are already talking about. “What exactly happened last night?”

The young woman, who they correctly assume is Kim, flips her perfectly blow-dried and curled tresses behind her shoulder. “You two were all over each other all night long.” She motions at Elliot with a free elbow. “It was so cute, because you both came in so uptight and stressed out. By the time the night was over, you were having so much fun. And you kept telling Rachel to ‘live’ or something like that.”

Olivia smiles at the familiar undercover name that she has used in the past, then realizes what this girl is saying. First she is so thankful that she could either faint dead away on the floor or kiss her. This means she was likely not violated by Paul McKinney at all, but rather the other hard truth becomes a reality—it was Elliot. Then she is suddenly terrified that these people know who they really are, and that they have been made without realizing it. They’d unassumingly been using their real names around these people. Could they be aware of that fact? She glances at her partner, but can tell Elliot is locked away in thought, horrified about the news of their tryst, because his back has become rigid. She can see his muscles constrict even underneath the baggy clothing.  
Elliot attempts to cover up his distress by grinning faintly. “I’m sorry, what were your names? I’ve forgotten since last night.”

The younger man makes a tsking noise. “After all that G, I’d be surprised if you remembered your own name.” Another high-pitched chortle escapes his mouth.

Elliot stirs from his position and Olivia can sense his growing frustration. It will be difficult to contain him after so much deliberate ribbing. “Well, we don’t make a regular habit of using, you know.” He says this in a calm voice, lifting a shoulder, pushing himself to play along. “We feel that the best dealers stay out of their stash. Right?” Elliot’s eyes burn into hers, and she gets the feeling that he has remembered something significant and needs her to understand what he is implying.

She nods. “Yeah. You can’t get hooked on your own product and remain successful.”

The girl sets her dog on the floor. “Well, my name is Kim. This is Lawrence.” She throws her thumb over her shoulder indicating the kid behind her. She bends down and ruffles her dog’s fur. “This is Lexus,” she coos obnoxiously.

Elliot shoots Olivia another incredulous look. A noise sounds and Kim hops up, somehow avoiding rolling her ankles in the boots. “Oh! Your clothes are done. I’ll go get them so you can get out of those.” She clicks away, and Lawrence laughs after her.

He turns to the detectives. “We’ll leave as soon as you get dressed.” He momentarily leers at Olivia, admiring her appearance seemingly unaware of Elliot’s possessive glare. “You should wear that instead of your granny outfit. Lookin’ good, mama.” He chuckles, especially when the male detective could kill him with his expression alone. “Sorry, Greg. I know she’s off-limits.” He traipses off to find Kim, leaving Elliot and Olivia to themselves once again.

She turns to him, mouth close to his ear. “Obviously you remember something.”

“It just came to me,” he responds and his breath skimmers down her hyper-aware, exposed skin. Gooseflesh breaks out down her arms, but she forces herself to remain calm.

“What are we doing?” she whispers.

“We’re supposed to be pharmaceutical dealers trying to meet up with Paul McKinney. I didn’t piece it together until Lawrence started talking about our drinks being spiked, and then I remember Fin infiltrating us by getting a meeting with this kid. Started as a date-rape case that connected with McKinney.”

“How are we going to get in contact with our handler? Were we wired?” Olivia’s whispers become harsh.

“I don’t know.” He shakes his head in small movements. “I can’t remember anything else.”

Olivia nods, dread mingling with panic. What if their tryst had been heard by their superiors? The next step would be dropping the evidence off with IAB for their eagerly awaiting hands. They’d just given the rat-sniffers some bait, and she is sure they’d be salivating for a chance to listen in on that little excursion between her and Elliot. Good lord, she thinks, swallowing past a growing lump in her throat. What had they done?

She realizes then only at that moment how close they are. The heat of his body seeps into hers and she finds herself immersed in another untimely flashback.

_A pitch black room, soft surface._

_His sweat-soaked body against hers. A flash of pain followed by the silk of a tongue._

_Velvet baritone in her ear, unlike any others._

_“Liv…”_

Olivia feels like she’s been doused in flames, especially with the knowledge that they’d been intimate just mere hours earlier. She moves away just as the two kids wander back into the kitchen, their original clothing slung over Kim’s arm.

“Oh,” the girl caws in the same manner she spoke to her dog. “Old people are so adorable!”

The detectives synchronously blanch and sigh impatiently while Lawrence snickers. Really the kid is finding way too much of the situation funny. Kim is utterly oblivious to anyone, choosing to fuss over her dog instead after handing off the clothes.

Lawrence stills and addresses the two. “So go ahead and get ready. I just spoke to Paulie. He can’t wait to meet you guys.”

Elliot clears his throat, and then smiles. “Actually, uh, Lawrence,” he says, trying to show as much amicability as possible, which Olivia knows is extremely difficult for him when his behavior must remain in check for such a long time. “We have to head out.”

“No, man, you can’t leave yet!” Lawrence states cheerfully.

“We have jobs to get to. Obligations. You understand, right?” Olivia pipes in, plastering on the most innocent expression she can muster. The kid’s eyes shutter, and he is no longer as animated, now tangibly hostile in countenance.

“You don’t get it,” he asserts, crossing his arms. “You don’t flake out on my man Paulie.” The detectives’ mouths hang open, mildly shocked at the swift change in character. “So move your asses.”


	4. Chapter 4

In the entire span of their eleven years of partnership, Olivia believes the ride to meet McKinney is one of the most painfully awkward. It ranks higher than their first conversation at the coffee shop upon her return from Oregon, the first moment after Gitano suffered the fatal gunshot wound to his head after the intense stand-off and death seemed imminent, somehow more than finding herself between a rock and a hard place with the tenuous Stabler marriage. Definitely much more awkward than the minutes after any number of her and Elliot’s infamous arguments when the entire squad falls dead silent and all eyes drop to them. Sure, extenuating circumstances make them less accountable for what happened last night, but tidbits of their encounter continue to rise up like an old, well-worn memory, and with the way he is avoiding her eyes and the severe way he is sitting, she is beginning to think he’s recalling some of the events himself.

She knows what GHB does to people. Countless victims give the same accounts. It’s more than blacking out and awakening with a memory full of holes—it’s the thought, the audacity of letting someone gain the upper hand, remove their will, make them vulnerable. The drug does things to them in ways that goes beyond their typical personality. It makes the person lose their inhibitions, makes them feel energetic, talkative, unusually intoxicated. It also lets out the hidden sexual side of a person. God only knows what that means. She’s almost too afraid to begin remembering exactly how she acted; not only is it embarrassing, but it could seriously jeopardize everything she holds dear to her life. Like the man she has called her best friend for over a decade.

They sit across from one another in the back of a white limousine, which had been dispatched by Lawrence’s “well-to-do” older brother. Older brother and “Paulie,” according to the kid, have audacious plans to take over the trade market on pharmacy drugs, open up shipments over the border and by sea, making friends with connections. They believe that New York is the most prolific location for business. There has to be a plausible explanation for the man’s reckless travel over the borders. Lawrence explains the ease in which the older man has in crossing, implicating deeply-seeded corruption. Olivia is assuming McKinney’s finding buddies in the Border Patrol and maybe various other law enforcement officials who want a little extra pocket money. The whole concept of such a far reaching operation involving a notorious drug-smuggling rapist is enough to make her feel a little fear—something that would make the more typical person wilt into submission—but she likes to toy with this emotion. It keeps her alert.

Olivia peeks over at Elliot, who is now staring intently at her. The eerie ambience created by the interior lighting of the vehicle illuminates his face, exaggerating the shadows and angles. It makes him appear more menacing, obscured. She notes that he looks better now in his own button-down and slacks and the dark purple blotches marring his neck which sharply contrast his appearance are nearly completely hidden by his shirt collar.

She looks down at her conservative pencil skirt, and runs a hand across the fabric to smooth the surface of any wrinkles. Not her normal attire; she’d never really been one to sport a skirt and only on special occasions wore a dress. The choice in clothes makes sense though. They’d dressed themselves to impress the drug dealer, who lives like he has all the riches in the world. If they want to sneak their way into his little haven, they’ll need to look their best. She’s not sure she remembers exactly what the back story is, but she’s assuming they are pretending to be a wealthy pair of business people with attractive enough networking to catch McKinney’s attention.

She hates that she needs to put on her most expensive outfit for a sorry excuse of a man with a complex who gets a kick out of making people submissive and taking advantage of them. A man who clearly desires control so insatiably that he must debilitate them with drugs in order to get his sickening sexual thrills. She knows that McKinney grew up in a seedy Bronx neighborhood with a single father and three siblings. They’d been poor and had little opportunity at their disposal. McKinney had used his size to intimidate people from childhood, then utilized it as he aged, flourishing in gang life and the drug business. It had seemed only natural for him to go this route; he’d grown up around the worst of it his entire life. McKinney has continued on to swindle as many people as possible, and treats women like objects. He does not understand or care about the core of morality—he would rather dehumanize someone than show them any semblance of compassion. A true narcissistic sociopath.

She’s seen plenty of the same kinds of rapists with a similar type of barely-concealed resentment for authority and disregard for the opposite sex; men who will do anything to be wealthy, even endangering countless lives as long as it puts them on top. McKinney is unique in his outreach, though. He has been flourishing exceptionally well both in and out of America.

Her mind drifts to how susceptible they are to ambush, and she wonders what they are to expect when they get to their destination. She lets her mind drift to her coworkers. Where is Fin? Elliot mentioned something about Fin helping them get infiltrated and that was probably done with the aid of one of his contacts he established with his time in Narcotics. Will Fin be there? She will be relieved to see a familiar face and will feel much more grounded and confident about their position. Olivia’s thoughts fall to their captain who is likely having an aneurysm right now over his missing detectives and the higher ups who are probably breathing down his neck. She contemplates the possibility that they were fully wired with electronics before, during and after the drugging. The terrors that the two face are innumerable.

Olivia is suddenly aware that she and Elliot have been virtually silent the entire time in the limo. Kim and Lawrence are squawking away at one another, but their voices have become background noise to her ears. She can’t concentrate when her partner is engulfing her in such an intense stare.

Déjà vu hits her like a brick. They’ve been here before.

_He’s sitting across from her in the limo. His shoes come into brief contact with exposed toes that peek out from the tips of her sling-back pumps._

_It is dark outside—she knows this because the black light makes the entire sitting area glow purple._

_She still has a thin wine glass in her right hand with about a quarter of her drink left, but she has begun to feel fuzzy. Not a bad sensation, really. Actually, it’s a pleasant feeling that makes her want to laugh and be irresponsible, and brings about a ravenous kind of yearning inside of her that desperately screams for attention._

_Sensual thoughts fill her head, arousing a purely animalistic desire in places she usually keeps hidden for herself._

_Elliot’s features smooth out into a lazy grin as he shares her gaze. In the glowing darkness, he looks self-assured and sexy._

_Fuck._

_Olivia has never wanted anyone so much in her life._

The noise stops, and she finally looks away toward the back of the spacious vehicle like she’s been caught doing something wicked. Sitting off to their right, the kids are looking at them with quizzical smiles.

Under their scrutiny, her head pounds with a renewed force. She definitely needs some Tylenol and a gallon of water.

“You awfully quiet over there, Rachel,” Lawrence says, and she thinks to herself that nearly everything that comes out of his mouth seems deviously snide. “Feelin’ all right?”

Olivia’s smile feels more fabricated than ever. “Headache.”

He shrugs, and then throws a wiry arm around Kim, who is sitting next to him calmly. The girl has decided to haul her dog with her and is brushing the creature’s fur with a salon-style brush. Olivia has probably spent less on her own hair products than what is used for the dog. “That’ll go away soon,” Lawrence states evenly.

Elliot decides to exercise his vocal chords for the first time in the half hour they have sat in the limousine. “I’m curious, Lawrence.” He is sprawled out across the seat he occupies, appearing completely comfortable. “When you handed us our clothes, our other things were missing. You have any idea what happened to them?”

She grimaces a little. He sounds every inch of the cop that he is. Lawrence either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, unflinching. Olivia’s not sure if his indifference is good or bad.

“Oh, you mean your purse and wallet? Paulie took ‘em.”

Olivia’s eyebrows perk. “For what?”

Lawrence’s demeanor transforms. He looks every bit of the criminal he is at that very instant and less like the amiable minion he once seemed to be. “Security purposes.”

They steady their expressions, keeping their eyes completely focused to avoid appearing edgy in any way. To show weakness to the young man is allowing him to think he can manipulate them. Olivia responds, her voice sharp. “He always this paranoid?”

“He don’t trust nobody. Not even his old woman under these kinds of situations. You understand? Can’t afford to let his guard down for even a minute. You should know that.”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re careful in our own way, but he’s being a little extreme, don’t you think?”

“Got anything to worry about? Rachel?” Lawrence’s eyes narrow.

Olivia preserves her stare, unwavering. “Of course not.”

“Good. Then everything will be fine.”

Elliot leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We’re not used to needing to be as careful as Mr. McKinney usually. Luckily, we go through the same guy we’ve had for a long time. But last night was an exception. It’s a little unnerving to know we were drugged and had our wallets taken.”

Lawrence looks giddy again at the mention of their intoxicated, drug-fueled escapade. “Don’t worry about the G, man. You two was way too tense, so Paulie decided to slip you some so it’d loosen you up and you guys could have more fun. Come to a party just to hang out in a corner? Naw. Anyway, right after he give it to you, you guys started laughing and all that. Removed the sticks from your asses. Relax.”

Olivia seriously cannot wait to be alone so she can release all of the pent up pissiness inside of her into the surrounding air as a scream. “Well, it would have been nice to have remembered having a good time. All we did was wake up sick.”

Kim bends to her right, and then digs around in a small refrigerator. She unearths a couple bottles of water. “Here. This will make you two feel better.”

Olivia steals a glance at Elliot. “We’ll pass.”

“Come on,” Lawrence says in disbelief. “The water will help with the effects of the GHB. Clean it out of your system.”

Elliot clears his throat. “You sure it’s not laced with something else? There won’t be any surprises this time?”

“No,” the younger man says, shaking his head. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“You have to earn trust,” her partner responds in a low voice.

Kim hands Elliot a bottle a little gruffly. “The seal isn’t even broken. It’s just water.” Her voice is dripping with a new level of defensiveness. “It wasn’t Lawrence’s idea, anyway.”

Olivia can’t help herself from allowing words to spill from her mouth. “So the plan was to loosen us up? Are you sure it wasn’t to make us so out of it that our personal items could be taken more easily?”

Lawrence holds his hands up. “A’ight. Let’s be cool.” He glances out the tinted window to his right and withdraws his arm from around Kim’s petite form. The vehicle comes to a gentle stop. “We’re here.”

~*~


	5. Chapter 5

The scenery outside suggests that the spot chosen to be the meeting destination is low-income. Elliot steps out of the vehicle first, and then pulls Olivia to her feet. Her eyes burn before they acclimate themselves to the abrupt change in lighting, then sweep the road, taking in the grit of the streets, scattered graffiti tags, and run down buildings. It is an eye sore to behold, and makes the run down industrial side of Manhattan look sanitary and wholesome. The people ambling about on the sidewalk do not seem to take any notice to the flashy limousine halfway parked in the driveway, blocking the exit. But she doubts they are trying to draw attention anyway. Two men are busily performing a less than secretive drug deal, and a young woman strolls up the street in red fish nets and a purple wig.

A seedy looking sign flashes above the brick-laid structure that has definitely seen better days, broadcasting in red letters ‘Gentleman’s Club and Sports Bar.’ Moss tufts out from the cracks in the mortar, and grime discolor the otherwise pleasant masonry. The small building next to it is a standard place with ‘Market Deli’ on the dark green canopy. Across the street is a small Italian eatery, but Olivia can’t make out the name of the place. Not far away she can see a wreck yard with skeletons of cars and trucks lined up near a metal fence. The entire mood of this area is gloomy. An overcast sky adds to the glumness.

She doesn’t recognize the location, but she’s certain they’re still close to the city. Traffic is not as dense and there are only a few people wandering around, but it still reeks of bustling activity. The harsh wind whipping her bare calves and the distant sound of a ship’s horn suggest they are closer to the water.

Elliot’s hand is at the small of her back as they move toward the door of the building and tightens around her waist as it is opened for them by Lawrence.

The inside of the ‘Gentleman’s Club’ is any average strip joint, with its shadowy front entrance, large central room that reeks of cigarette smoke and booze, cat walks with shiny stripper poles and the main stage shielded by a backdrop that reflects the red-colored lights above. Two flat screen TVs hang from opposite walls, and are currently tuned to ESPN broadcasting a lineup of the most recent sports event in painstaking detail. Olivia’s insides turn when she realizes that it smells like sex as they advance further towards the stage. Only a couple men grace the club, and they are both rather unsightly in their own right. One looks like a yellow-eyed, potbellied drunk on close to his last bender, dirty suit, beer gut hanging over his belt, spine-chilling grin; the other is skinny as a rail, sweaty, and twitchy – meth addict, it appears – and is currently enjoying a lap dance from a busty red-head with ivory skin.

The girls are something else. They look like the rejects of the glitzy Manhattan clubs Olivia and Elliot have had to visit on occasion near the downtown area and one step up from prostitution. There are about five of them wandering around without something productive to do. One is on the stage, doing poses in boredom that Olivia thinks are stolen from a yoga class, two others are chatting with one another while wearing virtually nothing but g-strings and jewelry. Another youthful looking girl is leaning against one of the cat walks, and has been watching the group enter the establishment with a hungry expression on her face. She smiles at Lawrence, waves, and then targets Elliot. It is clear she hopes to make money off of him. Olivia figures he must be a breath of fresh air from the lechers that crawl in from the gutters.

The woman, who Olivia is tempted to ask for identification to verify that she is old enough to even work here, walks over wearing a mind-bogglingly short skirt manufactured to look like part of a Catholic school girl’s uniform. The get up includes white garters, pig tails, and a see through white shirt that has been tied at the bottom to show off her belly button. Olivia can’t help but notice the stripper’s nipple and navel piercings.

“Hey, Lawrence, baby!” she shouts, springing in her clogs so that her oversized breasts bounce with her. The young man lifts her into a bear hug and Olivia gets a pretty clear glimpse of the young woman’s nether region as she kicks her feet up eagerly.

Olivia averts her eyes to the ceiling until they are done. When she looks over at Elliot, he is staring back with a mortified frown, keeping his eyes trained to hers, his mind almost certainly thinking of his daughters.

“Who’s your friend?” Stripper asks, making her intent obvious, biting her lip and batting her eyelashes. “Never seen him before.” She grabs Elliot’s hand that has been hanging at his side, giving it a squeeze.

Lawrence is in his element, speaking loudly. “Oh, this is Greg Matthews. He’s going into business with my brother and Paulie.” Lawrence reaches over and grabs Olivia’s shoulder with a friendly grip. “This is Rachel Smith, Greg’s partner.” He laughs riotously. “Or so they say. Y’all should’ve seen these fools last night.” One final clap against her back before continuing. “You could take some lessons from her, Lila. Cougar sure knows how to move.”

Calling Olivia a cougar nearly sets her off, but she is too horrified to respond accordingly. Elliot coughs next to her in vexation, obviously amazed that the kid is thrilled in bringing the subject up. The young woman notices Olivia for the first time, her smile spreading. “Really?” she asks suggestively. She lifts her eyebrows, but thankfully spares the detective the pleasure of her company when Kim drags the girl by the arm away from the group and in a dark corner to whisper excitedly. Olivia notices that Kim’s easy demeanor and manner of dress only makes perfect sense; she’s obviously a stripper herself.

Lawrence turns to Elliot and Olivia and wags a hand to their left, where a large, muscle-bound man has materialized. He looks like a bigger, meaner version of the kid. This must be ‘Older Brother.’ Lawrence slaps hands with him and his brother gathers him in a brief man hug.

“These them dealers we was tellin’ you about,” the young man states, watching his brother earnestly, clearly eager for him to approve. Older Brother doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, even when Elliot smiles warmly, steps forward and attempts to give a proper greeting with a handshake. The only movement that she can see is the contraction of the man’s pectoral muscles. Elliot recoils and Lawrence pats her partner’s back. “He’s cool, man. They partied with us last night.”

Older Brother finally proceeds toward them and takes Elliot’s hand, but his dark brown eyes look as though they are searching hard for any kind of visible flaw or break in character. “Carl Wilson,” he says in a deep, man-sized voice. Obviously much older than Lawrence. And less trusting. Olivia sees Elliot’s face drop from a tight smile to a hesitant frown. “Great to meet you.” Carl rolls his beefy shoulders. “We heard through the grapevine that you have pretty successful connections overseas and in Canada. Is that true?”

Elliot nods readily, following him when the larger man begins to head toward a curtained door. They speak in low tones that Olivia begrudgingly cannot understand. Lawrence wanders back to the girls who have accumulated around the center stage and are squawking away like a bunch of clucking hens. Olivia hangs back slightly, giving herself a few feet of clearance behind her partner and Carl, eying the .357 Magnum holstered at the man’s hip. She’ll only assume that the weapon isn’t registered to him, and that he’s probably used it before. The tattoos and bulky muscular structure suggest prison time, although she doesn’t recognize him from any of the cases they have worked. Every detail about this excursion she implants into her memory, hoping that doing so serves some kind of purpose to putting this pharmaceutical drug market kingpin/rapist down.

She wonders if it’d be possible to wrestle the weapon away from Carl. She’s taken down some big characters in her day, stronger, jacked up on drugs; however, she’s not sure if doing so will yield positive results. Her and Elliot are unarmed, without back up, she’s wearing heels, and she’s sure there are others just as strapped as Carl. To make a move like that without backup is too chancy.

Carl stops near the back wall to the left hand side of the small stage, then faces Elliot. He is two to three inches taller than the detective and has about a hundred pounds of solid muscle in his favor. “Turn around and put your hands against the wall.”

Elliot’s brows furrow, but he keeps a light, confused smile on his face. “What’s going on?”

“Turn the fuck around.”

Olivia feels anxiety roll around in her ravaged, empty stomach. “Just do what he says, Greg,” she says carefully.

Elliot cautiously turns and places his hands against the wall, is then shoved none-too-gently in the shoulder by Carl, and frisked just as aggressively. Carl then motions at Olivia and she does the same as her partner, but instead of the barely contained rage and rough shoves, she feels the man’s enormous mitt of a hand on the nape of her neck and the other trails up her bare legs, skimming upward a little farther than necessary and pushing up the hem of her skirt. She glances at Elliot and he clenches his jaw, his nostrils flaring slightly. Carl’s fingers crawl over her ass and grope creepily underneath her breasts—until the desire to drop-kick him in the groin almost overwhelms her desire to keep up this façade.

He leans forward so that his mouth is an inch from her ear. “Looks like you’re both clean.”

Elliot clears his throat and she knows he had come about one second from attempting to break the guy’s neck.

The group ducks past the cascade of beaded strings and wanders through a dark hallway stinking of marijuana smoke and cat urine. Or at least it smells that way. Olivia knows that methamphetamines can often give off the same odor when a regular user sweats. The effect of both aromas is nauseating. Carl leads them to a door and knocks twice, and then opens.

The first noticeable thing that comes into view in the dimly-lit office is the large desk. Its berth expands nearly from one side of the room to the other. The space is decorated just as extravagantly as the McKinney house, and seemingly out of place in such a hole in the wall location. A well-polished, yet bulky man is sitting behind the wide desk, and he is immediately identified as Paul McKinney. The man of the hour. He has bright green eyes that are glassy from recent drug use, and dark red hair styled meticulously into a faux-hawk that has become fashionable for well-kept professional men. The glass on the wooden desk before him is dusted with a fine, powdery substance and the man holds a small silver spoon in his fingers. He’s probably just snorted cocaine, but the most profound evidence of the drug is out of sight, likely now residing inside his nasal cavity.

_It’s dark. And she’s inebriated. She can tell by the way she stumbles._

_Huge, fleshy hands touch her arms. She recoils, but the hands pull her body into another, softer form. The rounded belly brushes against her skin. And something hard and urgent._

_She feels cornered and repulsed. Fight or flight nearly overtakes her rational thoughts. Her police senses._

_His breath reeks like liquor and weed and is hot as is washes down on her face._

_She looks into eyes that are void of emotion. Zombie-like. Then pulls away, desperate to get free. She presses her back against the wall behind her._

_“What’s going on?” she hears._

_The hands fall into the air, and the hefty body sidesteps so she can see the owner of that voice._

_Elliot._

“Good to see you two again,” Paul McKinney says. A smirk lifts the corners of his mouth and Olivia can’t help but feel the man’s offending stare burning her skin.

She feels cornered once again.


	6. Chapter 6

_Elliot’s face enters her line of vision. He looks concerned. And drunk. One punch drunk._

_“She almost fell,” the big man purrs. Turns back to her, fingers brushing the bare skin of her arm._

_She shudders in disgust, but he must think it’s from something else entirely. He’s about to edge closer. She can feel the heat emitting from below his belt._

_The other arm is tugged by a familiar hand._

_“She’s coming with me,” Elliot murmurs._

_McKinney’s touch falls away. Olivia allows herself to duck into her partner’s embrace. She feels appreciative. And safe._

_His mouth is on her temple as they teeter through the dark room, past faces all a blur._

The memory is startling. Olivia wishes she would only recall the pleasant parts of the previous night, because each one has been quite tolerable, thrilling even, but the idea that McKinney’s hands have been on her, that she’d felt his erection makes her want to tear out of the strip club bullets and heels be damned. Olivia forces herself to keep a stone face and remembers that Elliot had intervened, just in time. He’d escorted her away from McKinney and had kept her from his predatory desires.

She can only assume what occurred immediately after being led away. She just hopes that it didn’t involve any questions or hurt feelings on the dealer’s behalf. Since they’d been loaded on mind-altering drugs that destroy the usual inhibitions they maintain, what was to keep them from being vulnerable to a little slip in character? Had they released information? Kim did say that Elliot had accidentally called her ‘Liv.’ How much did the dealer know? That is the chance she knows they must take in order to get out of there alive.

She studies McKinney as he grins up at them. He is running his tongue over his top teeth, staring at her, lids heavy with lust. He leans backward into his chair, and seems to be holding his tongue, just as Lawrence had earlier. He has something he wants to say but is letting the silence become unbearably uncomfortable. He will reveal to them what he wants to say when they are feeding on the tension he is creating like baby birds.

He looks like a wolf waiting to attack. She fears they will be played like fools and led like lambs to their slaughter. Paul McKinney hasn’t been convicted of murder necessarily, despite being prime suspect in numerous cases involving murders, attempted murders, aggravated assaults, etc., but he is well known for leaving drug deals with a disastrous outcome. Usually ends up with someone either disappearing or beaten to a pulp, and a henchman taking the blame. The void in his eyes shows that he could care less about the people locked away for his crimes or the lives directly affected by the carnage produced by his actions. The vacant, glazed look in his eyes reveals his blatant disregard for the pain and suffering he has caused. She has seen it from so many other emotionally dissociated criminals of similar caliber.

“Please, sit,” he offers, motioning to the chairs placed before his desk. The detectives stand immobile for a moment, until the man’s forehead wrinkles. Elliot clears his throat, something Olivia knows he does when he is uncomfortable, and moves to sit down. She only hesitates a second longer, then delicately takes a seat, although positioned on the edge, ready to jump at a moment’s notice. She stretches her skirt as far down her knees as possible, and then clamps her thighs together, crossing her ankles. Visibly closing herself off.

McKinney does not even fidget. The only perceptible movement Olivia and Elliot notice are his eyes flitting briefly towards Carl Wilson, who stands with his back against the wall appearing less like a business partner and more like the man’s personal bodyguard. “So, Greg, Rachel. I wanted to thank you for being cool about coming to talk with me, especially after such a crazy night.” Elliot and Olivia’s smiles are frozen. She has truly mastered the art of fake geniality. “How are you feeling, by the way?” His tone is dripping with indifference. _How are you doing? I hope you don’t mind that I spiked your drinks with GHB and turned you into sex-crazed, sloppy drunks. It’s cool, right?_

Olivia can feel the blood boiling under the surface of her skin. The bastard thinks this is hilarious. Her face feels pulled tight and it takes everything in her to keep the phony sociability from faltering. “Well,” she huffs. “Tired. Hungover.” She is really pasting on the sweetness, though she really wants to dive over the desk and start pummeling the man.

Elliot stirs next to her. “We don’t usually take drugs, so the GHB came as a little bit of a surprise.” The detectives share a quick glance that drifts below the neck. McKinney seems like he is mystified, steepling his fingers.

“You don’t do any at all? Or just the GHB?”

The detectives both take part in answering in the negative. “Oh, no. Never.”

“The occasional drink, but that’s it for us.”

“Not even coke? Or weed?” This comes as a complete shock, and his façade transforms into something like doubt, even suspicion. He relents after a moment. “I mean, I get it. Not hooking yourself on your own product. It’s a smart business move. Most of the guys I get involved with end up addicted and they blow through their supply like its fucking Christmas. It’s definitely a lot safer to keep your hands out of it, I guess.” McKinney watches Olivia, just hard enough to make her skin crawl. She feels like her skin could crack, due to all the fake optimism. “One thing I love about the G, though, it really allows you to let loose. Right, Rachel?”

_Well, why not,_ she thinks acidly. _I think it’s just great. I had no problem at all with you backing me up against a wall and rubbing your cock into me._

“If I could remember what happened, I’d agree with you,” she answers in a saccharine voice with an expression etched in stone. She can feel Elliot turn and gawk at her uneasily.

McKinney scoffs lightly. “An unfortunate side effect. But you sure lit up the night. The whole club had their eyes on you.” His tone is reflective and dreamy, and sickens her to the core. She wonders if he thinks of the numerous women and girls he has left bloodied and bruised under his wake, if he feels bad about what he’s done. Doubtful. He shrugs his fleshy arms. “If you weren’t attached to Greg all night, I’da thought you were game. But I kinda got the vibe that Greg would snap my neck the minute I tried.” He turns to Elliot. “No offense. I know you two are close.” The wedding ring on the male detective’s left hand gleams even in the darkness of the room.

Elliot hides his ring by intertwining his fingers and flushes a deep red. “We’re, uh, good friends.”

“That it?” McKinney asks like he is interested and wants permission. Olivia is perturbed by the hungry way in which the dealer reacts to Elliot’s passive response.

She decides this has gone on long enough. She will not even allow McKinney the slightest hint that she is something to be owned or used. She is not just a desperate junkie or a drunken woman he can manipulate. “Sorry to interrupt, but aren’t we here to discuss business?”

The drug dealer snaps his head in her direction like she has smacked him in the jaw. He is not expecting her to voice her opinion. From the way he reacts, he likely thinks that a woman has no place being in the room, but dancing on a stage scantily clad or bent over a bed. His eyes are wide with indignation. “All work and no play, you two. Well, I suppose I can respect that, even from a woman.” He swivels away from her to speak with Elliot. “So, I heard you do some pretty major dealing overseas. Is it just pills? Or do you specialize in other merchandise?”

Both detectives shake their heads, probably appearing as confused as McKinney does sweaty. “Uh, what other merchandise? You mean, like, street drugs?” Elliot asks.

“Sure, why not.”

Her partner sighs, and she hopes that he can think on his feet quickly with this. They usually handle people whose problems are easy to determine. She knows how to deal with pedophiles, rapists, and she definitely is at her best while handling a victim. A drug lord who moonlights as a serial date rapist with influential connections is another matter. On occasion she goes under to bust a perp. It rarely has her fully immersed and even then the operation is usually very short. She’s made sure to keep undercover assignments at minimum after what went on when she went under as an inmate in a woman’s prison. Olivia has locked many of those moments of sheer terror away in a dark place, and mentally jolts herself to stay away from that topic.

Elliot is talking, all crisp, professional. “We prefer cleaner drugs. Amsterdam has some big business over there. People like the idea of taking pills instead of smoking, snorting, or slamming. Prague’s another place. Lots of success.”

The rapist visually perks at the mention of notoriously sleazy locations known for sexual exploitation, trafficking, and pornography. “Really? Prague, huh?” He rubs at the front of his neck. “You willing to get into passing girls around?” The desire in his voice is putrid. She knows that he is indeed hinting at the prospect of human trafficking.

Elliot’s smile is obviously fake, in the forced upward turn of his lips. “Haven’t gone that route, actually. We’ve mostly kept our business in the pill trade.”

McKinney is baffled. “Are you serious? Or does the bitch have that tight of a leash on you?” Elliot and Olivia don’t have the opportunity to become offended. “You’ve sold drugs across the border, but haven’t gotten into selling girls?”

The detectives must breathe for a minute before responding. “It’s just not our thing. We’re into selling pharmaceutical drugs. That’s all. It’s what we know best.”

“I just think it’s strange. I mean, you’ve never gotten any offers to take chicks as payment? I hear that happens all the time over there.”

Olivia shakes her head. The man is unbelievable. “Our clients don’t need to use people as payment. We don’t work with low level criminals. We come into contact with the higher ups, and they distribute the drugs down the ladder. It’s a lot less of a hassle to let others do the dirty work.”

“True. Sometimes they come in handy, though. I’m willing to take almost any kind of compensation. Furniture, jewelry, guns. Sometimes a suck and fuck. But I’ve taken in a couple foreign bitches that work here to pay off their boyfriend’s debts. Couldn’t afford their balance, so they sold me their hoes.”

Olivia’s heart clenches. The strippers. Some of them look so young, like teenagers. Come to think of it, most of the girls she’d seen while walking into the establishment are very youthful in appearance. Is the Catholic school girl costume to play on a man’s sickening fetish with school girls, or is the stripper, in reality, a girl? And Kim. She could have been as young as fourteen, with some of the childlike roundness still in her cheeks. McKinney and his crew would be an appealing avenue for an adolescent runaway seeking shelter and a man to take care of them. Or an undocumented immigrant willing to do what is necessary to live in this prosperous country. “Are the girls from Brazil?”

The man is paranoid in an instant, vaulting up from his lax position. “How’d you know I been to Brazil? And why the fuck do you care about a couple of Brazilian whores?”

_Oh, fuck no._

Olivia’s senses are buzzing with panic as she searches desperately for a good response. “I’m sure you’ve done your homework on us, so you expect us to read up on you, right? Because I learned through our sources that you travel to South America a lot. More notably to Brazil. Your reputation is well-known, especially in the circle we run with.” His eyes bore into hers, testing the tenacity of her story, waiting a deliberately prickly amount of time in quiet.

McKinney laughs abruptly, throwing her off. “I have to say I wouldn’t expect some hoity-toity slash like you to give a damn about two worthless strippers. But it’s forgivable since you are a female.” The man eases back once again, pondering the latter half of what she said. “So, I’m talked about in your circle? That operates out of Europe? I can understand Canada, but Europe?”

Elliot answers. “What can we say? You’re a popular guy, on everybody’s radar.”

“Well, I suppose I can’t complain. Any attention I get from a group other than the cops is good to me.” The detectives shift faintly. “So, enough conversation. Let’s get on with the matter. What do you suggest to do for our operation? You two obviously know where I go and what I do for my business, but what about you?”

Elliot glances at Olivia. “We could help you import the merchandise either in the air or overseas, depending on your preference. We’ve got a few pilots in our back pocket, as well as someone who works below the decks on a cruise liner.”

“How much weight do you bring to the US?”

How can the two of them even know what a good amount is? She is uncertain how to answer such a question. What sounds reasonable for pills? Should they avoid an excessively high amount, or would it stir up excitement in the dealer because he’d be thinking of how much money it would draw in?

“It varies,” Elliot responds, keeping it vague. “And it relies on the level of supply and demand. Lately, quite a bit.”

“How much is ‘quite a bit?’”

“Oh, about three million. Each.”

“In revenue or in count?”

“Count.”

“And what kinds do you import?”

“Well, we bring over a lot of the stuff that is too expensive in the United States. You buy in Europe for a cheaper price; sell it for less than what the pharmacies charge. Some people just want a kick, but most of our clients want a better bargain, or don’t have insurance and they turn to us instead. Like morphine, vikes, Oxycontin, Methadone, Ritalin. Also a little bit of Ephedra. You know.”

_Christ,_ Olivia thinks sardonically. _El’s going to make us out like we’re a couple of fucking humanitarians._

But it’s working. McKinney is practically delirious and she’s pretty sure it’s not from the cocaine but from the false belief of his assumed future success. Maybe it’s both. Even Carl, who has remained a silent bystander the entire time, is beginning to look starry-eyed. Elliot and Olivia continue to butter up the two men with elaborate details, all forged at the top of their heads, with both the detectives bouncing information off of one another like they do on a regular basis. The meeting that’d started out in tense unease and explosive paranoia becomes seamless in its execution, and Olivia finds that she is enjoying herself, smiling once or twice. She cannot wait to finally nail the bastard. There’s so much evidence mounting against him that her and Elliot will likely be redeemed of all their past reprimands. This is going to be huge.

Paul McKinney stands for the first time since their entrance in his small, but elaborate office, his pot belly in full view. He leaves his dark blue dress shirt untucked and wears his dark trousers in a loose fashion. She can’t help but remember the way he pressed against her the night before, using his large form to keep her from escaping.

He juts out a hand, shaking Elliot’s, then capturing hers and caressing it. “I have a good feeling about this.” He says this like he is speaking directly to her, still holding onto her fingers in a stranglehold. He talks to Carl without breaking his concentration. “Carl, get online and hook us up with four round trip tickets to Amsterdam, first ones available.”

Carl exits and Elliot chuckles nervously. “You want to fly out to Europe – now?”

McKinney finally drops her hand and Olivia wipes her fingers on her skirt. It feels slimy with perspiration. “Why not get a jump start on it?”

“Uh, well, just that we haven’t even gotten in touch with anyone—”

“We’ll deal with that when we get there.”

Olivia edges closer to her partner. “Our contact will get suspicious if we just show up unannounced.”

McKinney’s wolfish grin sinks and his gaze sharpens. He is no longer willing to deliberate with them. This is something they will do lest they want to face the consequences of denying him this amazing business proposition. “Are we going to have any problems? Or are you worried that I’ll find out this is all bogus?”

Elliot does not move. “Not at all.”

“Good.” The man gestures toward the door and the three exit out the same way they came in. “I sure hope this can go through. I like the way you two preach it—makes me feel like you actually want to fucking help people. Really, it’s sweet.” He looks back at them, smirking again. “Oh, and don’t worry about your wallets and cell phones. You’ll get them back on our way to the airport. My guy isn’t done doing your background checks yet.”

“Even after all that, you still don’t trust us?” Olivia asks.

“You have to earn trust, babe.”

She waits for the man to turn back around before she rolls her eyes. The trio breaks through the beaded curtain and moves into the performance room, where the center stage is currently lit up, blasting a Tupac song and featuring one of the young women from before. Olivia wonders if the girl is underage, and how strong of a hold McKinney has on her. They lock eyes and through the veil of seduction, she believes she can detect a touch of sadness in her stare.

“Carl will give you a lift back to my place. Relax, get cleaned up? You both look like you’ve been rode hard and put away wet. After that we’ll head out on the next flight.”


	7. Chapter 7

It's four o'clock in the morning and only two desk lamps are lit up in the unit. There's an odd silence to the squad room that has nothing to do with the time of day. Despite the activity buzzing on the floor, Fin knows perfectly well why; Elliot and Olivia have been missing for five hours now, despite the efforts made by him and Cragen to search the club and surrounding area. The detective's attached desks sit empty, and have been untouched since the two were last occupying the seats. In fact, the chairs are still swiveled outward from both readily leaping from them when he'd bounded out of the interrogation room with the plans he'd formulated in a matter of minutes.

Finally, a rumor had had validity in it, allowing the unit a way to penetrate the air tight posse that surrounds Paul McKinney. Munch and Fin had stumbled upon this date rape case just last Friday, and want to be the ones to collar the bastard before the FBI has a chance to bully their way into taking lead position of the investigation. The Bureau has struggled for quite some time to take the man down, and now the Special Victims unit is making the right kind of progress.

Well, at least they had been.

And all Fin had needed to do was rough his informant up a little bit.

_Fin sees his target as soon as he turns into the Bronx neighborhood. School children roam about as the punk converses with a junkie who looks like he will fall over with a heavy gust of wind. Fin pulls the sedan he is driving to the opposite side of the road about a block away and sits silently behind the wheel with a pair of small black binoculars at his eyes. The kid hasn't made the deal yet, but both Fin and Munch know it will happen in a few short minutes._

_This is when they will strike._

_His partner is bored and Fin can tell in the way the thin man is slouched in the passenger seat. Munch is not really one who enjoys stakeouts, with the long, often agonizing hours of watching and waiting and then the few seconds of pure adrenaline when the collar is made. Fin feels the familiar wash of excitement of the potential bust and almost misses this aspect of working with the Narcotics division._

_"You said Jeremy Vargas has done time. You still think this kid is harmless?" Munch asks as he flips through the day's newspaper._

_"Yeah," Fin mumbles, still studying the subjects. "Trust me. The kid talks big, but that's about it."_

_There. The hand off is quick, nearly imperceptible. Had the binoculars not been in Fin's hand, he probably would have missed it._

_"Let's go," he says, and the two spring into action. They thrust open the sedan doors and sprint over to Vargas, withdrawing their weapons before either man has a chance to run. "Don't move!"_

_The buyer turns anyway, but Munch clenches his gun with both hands, ensuring a precision shot. "I would advise against taking a run for it. You're already in enough trouble as it is." The man sags in defeat, and then moves to face the building next to him with his hands behind his back. "Looks like we've got repeat customers here."_

_Fin roughly shoves Vargas against the cement structure decorated with gang tags and posters. "Dealing dope within a thousand feet of a school, dirt bag? You didn't learn anything from five years in Attica, did you?"_

_Vargas groans in misery then bangs his forehead against the wall as his wrists are double-locked together. Munch cuffs the junkie a few feet away and hauls the man toward the car, reciting the Miranda rights and shares a quick glance with his partner. Fin nods, appreciating that Munch knows he wants to speak to Vargas alone since they have a history, and the two come to a silent understanding that Fin has better control over the kid if he doesn't feel ganged up on._

_Jeremy Vargas is pleading his case with his cheek pressed up into the cement building, squirming slightly as Fin frisks the kid's baggy jeans and New York Giants jersey. "I swear, man, I didn't know there was a school this close by."_

_Fin strikes gold in the young man's front pocket and pulls out a wadded up plastic bag containing several smaller baggies with crystal shards inside of them. "Lookie here. Crystal meth, huh?" For effect, he taps the kid's temple with the bag. "Made the upgrade from crank, I take it? You know judges are coming down harder than ever on meth dealers. And you got a hand off going on right down the street from a goddamn school?"_

_"Come on, Detective Tutuola. I swear I had no idea." Jeremy is trembling, and tears are escaping the kid's eyes. He is truly terrified._

_Fin does not let the emotional display get to him even remotely and gives a good shove between the kid's shoulder blades with his right hand "You didn't just see the group of grade schoolers walk by? Quit lyin' outta your sorry ass teeth."_

_"Please, man, I can't go back to prison. I won't survive in there again. I barely did the last time!"_

_Fin leans close to his ear. "Maybe you shoulda chose a different line of work, then. I can't unsee what I just saw, Jeremy."_

_"Then just kill me. Fucking shoot me, please!" Vargas lets out a pitiful sob and tears drip to the ground as he stares at his shoes. He really is pissing down his leg about being locked up again. Fin has to wonder how traumatic doing time was for the young man to have this kind of a reaction._

_Now is the best time to manipulate him._

_"Then you get to do me a favor, home boy," he growls, digging his grip into Vargas's shirt collar. "Let's take a ride to the station house. And you'll tell me everything you know about Paul McKinney."_

Cragen's door opens, and their grizzled captain emerges from his office. The stress has become obvious since the disappearance of his detectives, and if it is any more possible, Fin swears he sees wrinkles set in on top of his wrinkles. Every head turns toward the man and voices stop, with the expectation of any kind of news whether good or bad.

"What's up, Cap?" he asks, and Munch turns his head away from his computer screen to give the older man his complete attention. Everyone waits with an anxious breath.

"Nothing on Elliot and Olivia, sorry guys. But One Police Plaza wants to know about the progress we've made with locating them before we send out an official BOLO, and the Chief of D's and the FBI want an update on the McKinney case. I've got to get down there and smooth things over before they have enough caffeine in them to wake up and realize what's really going on." Cragen shrugs into his suit coat. "Anything on your end?"

Munch throws a pen down onto his desk. "Well, we sent a BOLO out for Lawrence Wilson and McKinney's description but they're about as easy to find as Jimmy Hoffa's unmarked grave. Nothing so far. I did a records and DMV search on the two; naturally, we have a plethora of hits on McKinney, but the kid's record is crystal clear. Never had any police contact at all, not once even in childhood. Never been pulled over. In fact, he's not even old enough to party. He's seventeen years old."

Cragen shakes his head in disbelief. "A seventeen year old kid?" He closes his door softly, clearly thinking about all the outcomes two of his best detectives face and all the questions the SVU will have to answer to if Elliot and Olivia do not return safely. "You know the drill. Let me know the instant anything happens." He pauses. "Keep this as far away from the press as you can. We can't let any word escape this floor. There's still a chance that they're alive and if McKinney gets wind of them being cops…"

"That's if he doesn't know already," Fin mutters darkly.

"Let's not think like that. Just keep searching. And call me if anything comes up."

"Will do."

_Fin doesn't even have to try very hard to get Jeremy Vargas to break. He's known the kid for at least a decade when he'd taken his first ride to the Narcotics department of Fin's former precinct. Then, a defiant fourteen year old brat hanging out with weed growers, and now, a broken sad sack of a young adult struggling to make his life work and failing miserably._

_He had hoped to give Elliot and Olivia reprieve from jumping head first into a heavy case since they had just closed one themselves, involving a father molesting his own infant son. But they seem to appreciate the distraction from the unending deskwork and eagerly accept the opportunity to step away from their case-ending duties._

_Vargas explains that he's never met McKinney, but he knows someone who practically lives with him, a kid just barely in his senior year of high school who is making a name for himself with the help of the infamous dealer. Vargas also says that McKinney won't partner with anyone who looks like a thief. He wants business people, professionals. He's sick of being ripped off by thugs, and if they don't look sharp, there's no meeting._

_Fin knows that Elliot fits the role better than he does. Doesn't matter what he wears, nobody will look at him like a professional. He can dig into the pits of his closet, throw on one of his old suits and he'd still get mistaken for a pimp. It should piss him off, but he's encountered this more times than he can remember and has grown numb to it. Instead, he opts to play the role of dissociated partier who watches from afar. Running interference lest anything goes down unexpectedly. Olivia will go with her partner to make sure his ass is covered by doubling up on manpower to meet with the date-rapist. She insists, even though her role is probably a little extraneous._

_"I'll go with Elliot to meet up with Wilson," Olivia says, standing and daring anyone to disagree with her._

_Elliot is the only one willing to spar. "Liv–"_

_She turns to him, shocked that he will even try to question her logic. "We don't know how dangerous McKinney is in person, Elliot. You know he has a violent history—he's flagged assaultive to LEOs, resists and eludes arrest, pretty much a nightmare for anyone unfortunate to encounter him. It'd be safer for me to go with you to make sure nothing happens."_

_Munch grins at Olivia, not even trying to hide his admiration of her. "Two heads are better than one." The grin grows wider at the scathing raise of Elliot's eyebrows._

_It's settled. She'll go in as Elliot's business partner or heads will roll._

_Fin knows the two as well as anyone in the unit, but he is aware of why she wants to step in to be at Elliot's side. It goes beyond standard partnership, and they have bent the rules for one another on too many occasions to count. Fin is close to Munch, but not that close. He and his partner try to steer clear of office gossip, but Elliot and Olivia make it too easy for outsiders who wag their tongues over the intrigue. Fin thinks it is funny how often he finds himself defending them from rumors of fraternization when he might just believe it as well._

_Fin lets out a playful wolf whistle when the two descend the staircase from the locker rooms to the main floor. Elliot is wearing what looks like his most expensive jacket over one of his 'courtroom' dress shirts and Olivia is actually wearing a skirt._

_The lot of them pull Jeremy Vargas out of one of the interrogation rooms who has been sitting on ice for hours after speaking to Lawrence Wilson. He is anxious and worried about being discovered as an informant in cahoots with the police. Afraid of what could happen to him if McKinney ever finds out what he is doing and uses his connections to hire a mercenary to kill him. Fin doesn't want to think that the dealer could have that kind of impact, but he knows Vargas's fear is legitimate; McKinney is on the FBI's Most Wanted list for a reason._

_Anything is possible._

"I think I got something," Munch announces, interrupting Fin's deep introspection of the previous day's events. "McKinney has an associate with a familiar last name—get this—another Wilson boy. Lawrence may not have any priors, but his brother does." Fin peers over in interest, frowning at his partner curiously. "Carl James Wilson, a.k.a. CJ Wilson convicted of three counts armed robbery, illegal possession of a firearm, altering a firearm, and possession of a controlled substance all in 1999. It looks like he did seven years in Sing Sing, then was released to his mother, Esther, in 2006."

The wheels begin to turn in Fin's head. "Big brother involved with big dealer for very long? When were they connected?"

Munch's finger traces the words on his screen. "Within the last six months. It looks like he's been following all of the conditions of his parole religiously. He's working a full time job, paid off all of his fines and restitution, and visits his PO once a month."

"Hmm. Doesn't sound like he's in business with anyone on police radar except the obvious. Unless he's finding ways to make a good impression."

"Have you been reading my conspiracy magazines again? That's a pretty steep allegation."

"Where does this guy work? Maybe we can pay him a visit, chat him up about his little brother. If he's got his shit together, it's possible he'll be more willing to work with us."

Munch taps the down arrow key several times until he finds the information he's looking for. "Gentleman's Club and Sports Bar. Located off of Hunts Point Avenue and Halleck Street."

The detectives stand with renewed fervor to find their colleagues. Fin instantly presses his cell phone to his ear after dialing Cragen and informs him of their next move.

_Fin, Elliot and Olivia are standing against the back wall of the club, the three of them glaringly out of their element being that the ravers traipsing past them are all about twenty plus years younger. Their informant is busy speaking to Lawrence and the females buzzing around him, seemingly enjoying his role despite his earlier apprehension. The detectives have been lurking in the same spot for the better part of an hour, and Cragen is sounding restless from the headsets in Olivia and Fin's ears. If things don't start happening they're calling it off for the night._

_Suddenly Vargas and Lawrence amble over to the three. Fin crosses his arms and nods once at them while the other detectives introduce themselves assertively. Fin lets them wander away, but keeps his eyes on the two shielded by dark sunglasses. Elliot and Olivia enter an area adorned with Christmas lights, potted plants and a sofa and loveseat. They sit next to one another and are handed glasses containing something that looks like white zinfandel. The two look hesitant at first, but want to make a positive impression on them, and finally sip away._

_Not much happens except enthusiastic conversation between Elliot and a man obstructed from Fin's view thanks to a conveniently positioned palm tree that sits snugly against the side of the sofa. Jeremy is glancing over at him occasionally from his place next to Olivia, and Fin is almost tempted to throw something at him to get him to stop._

_"Wrap it up. This meeting is taking too long. We can continue this tomorrow."_

_Fin pretends to speak into a blue tooth device and covers his mouth like he is coughing. "Hold up, Captain," he whispers. "We may be onto somethin'." He's surprised that he doesn't already know this, but it appears Olivia's microphone may have malfunctioned. Fin begins to feel an uneasiness snake up into his throat. He doesn't like the way his gut is screaming at him. Something isn't right._

_Regardless of Fin's instincts, Elliot and Olivia's body language changes dramatically from guarded affability to energized chattiness. Fin is not even sure if his eyes are playing tricks on him or what, but he thinks that was Olivia pressing her face into her partner's neck. He moves away from his post and advances toward them to get a better view, but someone steps into his line of sight, and suddenly he finds himself on the other end of a fight, too close for comfort. A young man falls into him and the detective shoves him away._

_"Get offa me, man!" he growls. But they are laughing and they scatter before he can say anything more. He looks back toward the sitting area where Elliot and Olivia are apparently getting fresh, but it has been inhabited by a new group, sans his colleagues._

_Cragen erupts in his ear. "I think I lost Olivia on the other end. Fin, let's get going. Pull them out."_

_Fin pushes forward until he is right up against the arm of the sofa. Elliot and Olivia are nowhere in sight, and when he searches the crowd, he has no luck. Panic rises when he realizes that all it takes is a moment to pass by and he loses the pair he was supposed to be monitoring, not to mention his weasel of an informant. A more thorough sweeping of the area does not turn up anyone, much to his mortification._

_"I think we got a problem, Cap."_


	8. Chapter 8

The idea that had seemed so forthcoming back at the precinct has dwindled with the discovery of a darkened building; doors and windows blacked out and locked. The strip club is shut down, as they usually are, at five o’clock in the morning. The place is completely dead. There’s no activity going on inside, no closing employees cleaning up, no one adding up the day’s revenue – the glowing lights are off, no cars grace the parking lot, and the only people in the area are wandering druggies and burn outs with nothing better to do than look for a better score.

Munch has his phone against his ear, listening to a looping music clip of some popular modern day rap artist as a ringback tone of Carl Wilson’s choice. An automated voice messaging service picks up after the song is over, but he punches the ‘end’ button and slips the flip phone closed.

Fin shoves at the front door of the man’s work, irritation surfacing immediately. Hours of obligation of locating his colleagues and guilt over their missing status—whatever that may eventually mean—is making his temper short. “Open until three in the morning and these idiots are gone before five? When do they open their doors?”

“Eight a.m.”

“Three fucking hours. We ain’t got the time to wait.”

Munch stands back, motionless and silent. Finally, “We still have Wilson’s mother. She lives about ten minutes away with heavy traffic. If we leave now, we may be able to avoid the street congestion. Want to pay her a little visit?”

Fin pushes away from the door and strides past his partner with wide steps. “We have her address on hand?”

“No, but we can have dispatch send a unit or two to her place until we get there.”

Fin screws up his face like he thinks Munch has lost his marbles. “If Wilson or his mama sees marked patrols roll up, it could be bad news for everyone. Who knows what he or his brother is capable of?”

“Our car doesn’t have an MDT so I’ll need to call the precinct—”

“What you waiting for then? Do it, don’t talk about it.”

Munch presses his lips to a fine, frustrated line and watches Fin for only a moment before following after. He pulls his phone from his pocket and dials the captain, who gives him the address with rushed anxiety. A check up on his progress reveals he has nothing to offer.

The ride over to Esther Wilson’s house is silent, save for the sounds of cars passing, and the occasional shriek of sirens in the near distance. Another unsuccessful attempt to contact Carl goes by and Munch closes his cell phone with a disgruntled snap. To make matters worse, a car accident has snarled the surrounding streets, so traffic is at a stand still.

_Fin shoves people away from his path like a rampaging, snarling bull bludgeoning its way through a street full of toreros. A few of the guys have the guts to stand up to him, but they all back down the instant they see the frantic and desperate look on his face. He still cannot comprehend that he has managed to lose not only the main suspect and his informant, but his coworkers on top of all that._

_He has gone through every single room of the club, even the back offices and janitor’s closet. Anyone giving him anything remotely close to a questioning glance is barked at gruffly. “Don’t give me any shit right now. Trust me,” he tells an employee with piercings covering an ungodly portion of his face._

_“Get the fuck outta here or I’m callin’ the 5-0!” the man yells, and Fin chuckles in spite of himself._

_He pulls open his jacket to reveal a badge dangling from a metal chain. “Too late, man.” He turns and heads back into the main room of the club which is packed with kids and pulsing with deafening music. He can’t even think straight. Fin escapes out a side door and pulls the piece from his ear, then reaches for his pocket, pulling his cell out and dialing Cragen._

_His captain answers before the first ring has a chance to go through. “Fin, get over here.”_

_“What’s up? Did you find them?”_

_“Didn’t find Elliot and Olivia, but ran into our little friend here.”_

_“Vargas?”_

_“Yep.”_

_“I’m on my way.”_

Esther Wilson does not seem at all surprised to see two detectives at her doorstep as the midmorning sun is breaking even in the hazy New York sky. Her Mott Haven stoop is littered with moth-ridden fixtures and combined with the chipping paint lets off an aura of dilapidation. The sunlight casts a yellow hue to the woman’s craggy chocolate skin. She has her gray hair pulled into a tight bun at the base of her skull and a faded pink robe wrapped closely to her body with one fist.

She lets them in with little provocation. She acts as though this is nothing to be astonished over. Both Fin and Munch think this is usually conducive to a mother carrying the burden of her child’s sins. She knows something, but whether she spills it is still unknown.

Fin moves into the small front room and sits on the edge of her bouncy sofa draped in a well-loved and brightly-covered quilt. The place is warm, full of life, with years of this family’s existence evident in every crack and fiber of the place. Munch stands, his hip bracing the wall near the door. The woman sits in a recliner, clasping her hands in her lap. Waiting.

“You gentlemen want any coffee?” she asks, looking to Fin and then Munch, her thin black eyebrows reaching. “Awfully late for y’all to be calling. I thought six a.m. was the usual in the old days. Not anymore?”

“Not today. And no coffee for me, Mrs. Wilson, thanks,” Fin says, cracking a small grin. He feels compassion for the woman, especially when it is obvious she is merely an unfortunate, forgotten victim to her son’s criminal behaviors.

“So, you here for my son? What he do this time? The police always banging on my door six o’clock in the morning claiming he been messing around with fools he don’t know.”

“We just want to ask about Lawrence, ma’am. We figured Carl may help us out if he knew his brother may be in trouble.”

“Lawrence?” the woman shouts, working her expression into one of concern and disbelief. As if her son is the last person to be a troublemaker.

Munch unpeels his side from the wall. “He’s been associating with a well-known fugitive, who has also been on America’s Most Wanted and the top ten of FBI’s list. Paul McKinney.”

The woman could not be more astounded, and pushes a hand into her full, cotton-covered chest. “My baby is _not_ hangin’ around with no fugitive. He’s a good boy, gets good grades, sings in choir! Does that sound like a kid who hangs out with a fugitive?”

Fin and Munch know she will not take this well. “We were able to positively identify him at a club last night, Mrs. Wilson.”

“That don’t mean he was with this man. That don’t explain nothin’! All that tells me is he was at a club yesterday!”

“McKinney was with him.”

Esther’s face withers painfully, and Fin feels terrible for her, suddenly wishing to put an arm around her. She looks too guarded for a comforting embrace from a perfect stranger, though, so he remains still. “I don’t even know where he at,” she mumbles through the tears forming.

“He’s not here?”

She shakes her head. “He’s with his friends, I have no idea where. He always hanging out with someone over the weekend. But he always come back Sunday evening, and back at curfew. He never been in trouble before, I swear!” Fingers swipe roughly at tears.

Fin hands her a tissue from a Kleenex box on her small wooden coffee table. “What about Carl? Is he here?”

Esther crams the tissue underneath her nose. “He’ll be home from work any minute now. He’s trying so hard to get his life back together and on the right track. The judge came down on him so hard back when he was a kid because he was hangin’ out with the wrong kind of people. Waitin’ out in a car while the other guys committed the crime, but he got the harshest sentence. Goddamn cops broke his rib when they arrested him.” She appears bitter for a moment, then counters. “No offense to you gentlemen.”

Munch lifts the corners of his mouth slightly. “None taken.”

The two detectives spend the next fifteen minutes with Esther and she makes sure that the two hear her boys’ life stories in great detail. Father left after Lawrence had been born, so Carl had been forced into the role of acting dad. Of course, he’d been too young to handle such responsibility and had rebelled, thrusting himself right into trouble after taking to dealing drugs. Lawrence had been the spoiled baby, her “precious angel” who was incapable of doing wrong, and if he had, it could only be either as a result of being singled out by cops or the influence of his older brother.

_“You better start talkin’, Jeremy. Where are they?”_

_“I don’t know! They was driving away before I had a chance to say anything!”_

_“What color was the car they were in?”_

_A shrug. “I think it was black.”_

_“The make? Model?”_

_“All I know is that it was a limo, man! I don’t know the make or model!”_

_“What were they discussing? Do you remember?”_

_“Drugs, just like we planned, but they was really drunk, could hardly walk. I didn’t hear nothin’ other than that. The motherfucker didn’t trust me enough to join in the conversation and didn’t want me going with wherever they planned to go.”_

_“You didn’t see anything unusual?”_

_“Just McKinney gettin’ a little touchy-feely with your girl. Detective Stabler stepped in though.”_

The door opens and Fin and Munch are immediately on their feet and ready for whatever is to come. A tall young man with prison-built muscles is in the doorway, his eyes wide with uncertainty. He looks at the two detectives warily at first, until his eyes drift to the men’s badges somewhat hidden by their jackets. Panic overrides emotion; the two detectives notice he’s likely the kind to turn and bail.

Instead of running, Carl hides the reaction to the surprise visit by narrowing his eyes and straightening his back. “What’s goin’ on?” he asks.

“Carl,” Esther almost wails. “They need to talk to you about your baby brother.”

The younger man tenses visibly. “What about him?”

Fin squares his shoulders as he speaks, but even then he is still dwarfed by Carl’s size. The kid has a good four or five inches on him. “Lawrence could be in some trouble. We came here to talk to you and your mother thinking you could help us out. Since you’re staying out of trouble and all, we figured you would jump at the chance. Don’t want to see him end up behind bars.”

“Man, Lawrence do what he wants, I can’t control him. How am I supposed to do anything?”

“By telling us where he’s been goin’. We know he ain’t got a license, so you have to have driven him to where he wants to go. We also want to know who he’s been hanging out with, starting with some names or phone numbers.”

Carl shakes his head. “Nah. I ain’t no fuckin’ snitch.”

Esther reaches out and smacks the back of his head with an open palm and the woman instantly wins points in Fin’s eyes for boldness. “Don’t you be talkin’ like that in my house, young man! I just know Lawrence is only gettin’ into the same kinda badness you were into because of that crew you insist on hangin’ around wit’!”

He wilts at her wrath. “Mama, Lawrence does his own thing! Anyway I don’t got time to sit around and think about what he doin’—I got my own life to worry about. I did enough of playing daddy when I grew up. I drive him to where he want to go, but I don’t hear nothin’ and I don’t see nothin’!”

Munch has been quietly studying the young man, watching for cues that indicate any deception. “You know more than you’re saying, Carl. We know it. We’ll have no problem arresting you for obstruction of justice and withholding evidence.”

Carl and Esther are slack-jawed by the older man’s biting words. “What the f…heck are you talking about?” the kid carefully asks.

“You know _exactly_ what I’m talking about,” Munch responds in a brusque tone.

Fin holds out his hands to stem the growing aggravation. “Listen, Carl. We know you are more involved with what Lawrence has going on then you are leading us to believe. You really want to risk your freedom by lying to us? You’re lookin’ at violation of your parole. You only got a year left on your supervision, and if you mess up now, you can count on doin’ the rest of it back in a cement room the size of a closet.” He pauses. “Not to mention your little brother could easily be tried as an adult. You really want him to get thrown into a lion’s den like that?”

This stirs up that same panic Carl had experienced earlier, because he buries his face in his big hands and slumps onto the sofa near his mother. She puts her hand on the nape of his neck. “Don’t do nothin’ to him, please. He can’t do no time, man. He just a baby.”

“If you help us now, we can keep both of you from going back.”

“I don’t understand, he ain’t committing no crime. He’s just hanging out with his buddies.”

“He’s involved with an international fugitive. We had people watching him from the inside that can identify him.”

Carl’s face transforms from something like remorse to hardened malice. The gleam in his eye suggests this new information lit up a bulb in his brain. “Wait a minute. People were watching him from the inside?” Realization sets in and he begins to laugh. “Those two business stiffs in monkey suits were cops? I shoulda known.”

The detectives shoot each other a look. “Obviously, you’re more involved in this than we thought.”

“Yeah, I was there,” Carl sneers. “I knew they was too good to be true.”

Fin wishes he could pummel the kid into talking. “What _do_ you know, Carl? Are they alive?” Silence drives him to advance toward him threateningly. “You better start talkin’! If they have as much as a scratch, we’ll make sure both you boys go to prison. Believe that!”

Turns out Carl’s fears of going back to prison are substantial enough for him to cough up the location of McKinney’s hideout, a house being rented under a pilfered identity. He swears that Elliot and Olivia are alive, just fine in fact, were on their way to the airport with tickets to Amsterdam but have detoured to another location until Carl himself shows up. The flight is due to take off in seven hours, so the detectives know they have a pretty good chance of keeping them out of the air, but the failsafe that Wilson indicates means they need to keep the kid in touch with McKinney and he must make his presence known, otherwise it could mean a violent end for Elliot and Olivia.

Munch and Fin cuff Carl and haul him to the awaiting sedan, explicate his Miranda rights in spite of his knowledge of his Due Process laws, then contact their captain after closing him into the backseat. Units are sent to the airport, and a BOLO is sent out over the wire for the entire Eastern Seaboard with the plate and details of the limo, with hopes that Elliot and Olivia are going to be easy to find before McKinney gets wind of the recent developments.


	9. Chapter 9

It has never once been this painful to sit next to her, not even during their worst moments with one another—when he’s ready to throw his fists at the closest solid wall and she’s teetering on that fine line between remaining his partner and calling it quits for good. This terrifies him.

He recalls many events in which he’d either been so furious at her that he worried about exploding, or he couldn’t help himself but admiring her in a rather unpartnerly fashion. At this very moment, he is experiencing the latter. He pushes his thoughts back to last night’s venture that swirl around in fragments similar to a dream that he can’t quite remember enough of, and each leaves his heart sick and his middle in a state of distress. He’s pretty sure he’s worn himself out on Hail Marys, and silent apologies to his wife, although she couldn’t even stand to see him the last time they were in the same room. He truly is ashamed of his complete lack of control, and even more so that he enjoyed himself so damn much.

What he can remember is being fascinated by her skin, by the way the soft orange light of the streetlamp caressed her curves and transformed her into every hot-blooded man’s fantasy. In his inebriated, yet sexually charged mind, she tasted sweet, if that was at all possible. He remembers that much. He could not keep his mouth off of her.

Elliot looks up at her through hooded eyes and sees the damage on her graceful neck. He had put them there and had loved every minute of it. She offers a small, nervous grin and he is instantly overwhelmed with guilt. Doesn’t matter that they were both out of their heads from the drug, because he still feels as though he’d taken advantage of the situation, that he is somehow more responsible than her. He should have maintained control, should have protected her, but instead he had let an inner demon loose. The one intensely attracted to his partner, the one that makes him feel more like a horny high school kid than a full grown man.

_Slender fingers grapple with the button and zipper of his pants. Warm hands close around him, cupping, stroking while tongues clash, teeth collide._

_Fuck._

_He moves down, captures the skin of her neck in his mouth. Devouring the taste of her. She makes minute noises of satisfaction. This only gives him more of a drive to continue. Fabric brushes over his face until he has access to more flesh._

_He closes his mouth around the petal soft skin of her breast, then bites, eliciting another sharp intake of breath and a stream of curse words from her delicate lips._

Elliot flushes and feels like a creep. He’s never really that aggressive, and he’s pretty sure Kathy would knee him in the groin if he went that far in the bedroom. Lovemaking with her had always been gentle and familiar, and anything that out of the ordinary would almost certainly find negative results.

Elliot let’s his gaze trail up past Olivia’s shoulder, eyes furiously scanning the outside terrain with the skilled eyes of a military veteran and experienced police officer. The tinted windows do not hide the fact that they are no longer heading toward the airport. He knows this; he has been to the airport many times before. In fact, he thinks they are heading directly opposite of the location. Something inside of him is unnerved, and his gut is telling him get the fuck out, now.

But all he can do is glance briefly at the gun poking out from McKinney’s pants and smile uneasily at the man when he is noticed. Elliot’s left arm wraps around Olivia’s shoulders and he moves his clammy palm against the softness of her upper arm. He can feel her trembling with a combination of adrenaline and anticipation, and he knows that she has picked up on the same signals as he has.

Her hand has found his leg, and her fingers bite into the skin of his knee.

They are fucked.

Elliot looks out the window and sees that the limo driver has pulled into an empty lot next to a two-story industrial building.

Definitely not an airport. And definitely no one around. A lump forms in Elliot’s throat, when he realizes this may be it, their lives may end in this unoccupied cement structure and he hasn’t even seen Eli, Dickie or Lizzie in two days, hasn’t talked to Maureen in a month, is currently receiving the cold shoulder from Kathy, and Kathleen had told him that she’d hated him the last time they had talked.

He hasn’t been able to tell his partner that he wishes that things had been different for them.

That he loves her.

Her grip tightens around his knee and he pulls her firmly against him, where she allows herself to rest into the crook of his neck. His mouth finds the top of her head. He looks back at McKinney, who is grinning smugly.

“We’re here,” he says in a sing-song voice.

Elliot’s expression stiffens and his eyes become sharp. “This isn’t the airport, McKinney.”

The big man laughs, and the sound could rattle a corpse. “I know.”

The door opens, and Lawrence holds it open for the drug dealer. His face is blank, emotionless.

“You going to tell us what’s going on?” Olivia asks. The two of them are still seated, pinned to each other’s sides.

“Get out,” Lawrence says, no longer joking or goofy in demeanor.

Elliot stares hard at the kid, trying to find the good in him, the seemingly genial teenager they’d met earlier who just happens to be wrapped up with the wrong people. “Not until you tell us why we are here and not at the airport,” he barks, hoping to rouse a little irritation or anger. Something that he is familiar with and can use to his advantage. From his experience, an angry person makes mistakes, is far easier to disarm, and gives the two of them a better chance at survival.

Nothing but emptiness.

A gun is cocked and Paul McKinney steps back into view, this time his weapon is drawn—what looks like a semiautomatic Heckler & Koch .45. A mammoth of gun, probably armor piercing bullets with hollow points. “Get out of the limo. Now.”

Olivia flits her eyes to her partner’s chin. “El,” she whispers almost inaudibly. “Come on.”

The two detectives comply, rising from the vehicle with creaking joints, feeling their final seconds closing in on them like a heavy black cloak.

_He will never forget anything about the first feeling of being inside of her._

_She is hot, tight. His hands cup the curve of her hips, and he reveres the satin feel of her._

_Her lips fall open and he marvels her expression of ecstasy, then captures her in a kiss._

Elliot’s arm is still around her, but she has snaked her hand around his waist and is fisting his shirt. Lawrence and McKinney allow the two to amble ahead of them, where they are led to the backside of the building. They round the corner to see yellowed grass peeking up from underneath rusted metal scraps. Haphazardly strewn garbage, oil-stained cement. An almost clichéd murder scene.

“Stop right here,” the older man says, and the two come to a standstill, both glancing around for anything that could possibly indicate help is on the way, or that may possibly become a potential distraction. Nothing.

Elliot can’t contain himself any longer. “Look, obviously something is up. Will you just tell us what is going on?”

McKinney stills and blinks. “I know you two are cops.” He shakes his head and makes a tsk-ing noise from the side of his mouth. “I told you, I have my ways of finding out shit.”

The detectives’ eyes meet and hold onto one another for a few seconds. Somehow, this does not surprise either of them. Elliot has been feeling this moment build up since his unceremonious awakening in the man’s house. This whole time he has had this inkling that their situation would crumble and inevitably end up a life or death matter. It’d always been that way with them.

Still, McKinney is a seriously paranoid criminal, and there is always a chance he’s playing them, waiting for one or both to confess under pressure. They’ve both used this tactic in interrogation. Give the person under scrutiny the impression that they know it all, that there’s no point in feigning ignorance. It works occasionally.

Elliot shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

“My man Carl—I can always rely on him! He’s been busted by your little cop friends and they actually were dumb enough to let him call me. We have a special code for situations like these and he let me know that the fuzz had infiltrated somehow. Makes your meeting awfully damn convenient, right?”

Olivia straightens herself to her fullest height and steels her voice. “Killing us will only bring you more trouble, McKinney.”

The man barely acknowledges her, more interested with inspecting the safety on his gun than anything else. “What makes you two think I haven’t committed murder before?”

“Believe me,” she continues. “The FBI and the NYPD will have your ass. You’re already cornered, McKinney. You’ve raped innocent women. You’re planning to kill two cops. Trust me when I say your days are numbered.”

The dealer is clearly flustered, because his body shakes with laughter, but it’s not at all a pleasant kind. An unsettled feeling slinks into Elliot’s gut – he doesn’t like the way McKinney is behaving. Despite the man’s weight, he looks like he can move quickly and think on his feet; since he is a wanted fugitive, he’ll likely not give two shits about a couple of detectives caught in the mix. Elliot prepares himself to act just as fast.

Olivia continues to bait the man. “You honestly think any law enforcement officer will let you even get to a jail cell? They’ll kill you on the spot once they find you. Why risk allowing you to go to trial when there’s a chance you could get off due to technicality?”

“Liv –” Elliot warns, turning his body instinctively to shield her from the dealer. 

“You think I’m afraid of the police? Bitch, they’re in my back pocket! They work for me! How do you think I got across the fucking Mexican border? How do you think I have managed to stay in New York for so long without getting arrested, hmm? Because I run the city!”

Elliot scoffs, shaking his head while Lawrence grins hungrily from beside him. “That’s going to change. No matter what you do today, the FBI will still be looking for you.”

“And you can count on the entire police force to be on the hunt, because there’s one thing they hate just as much as a sex offender, and that’s a cop killer,” Olivia adds confidently. “You’ll have one of the most recognized faces in the nation. If you kill us, you don’t stand a chance at getting away.”

McKinney’s facial expression turns sinister. “Trust me, you fucking skank,” he growls, steps forward, and grabs a handful of her hair. He yanks her out of Elliot’s grasp and lets his mouth fall within an inch of her ear. Olivia cries out involuntarily, reaching for her head as the man shakes her like a ragdoll. “I’ll be gone before they have a chance to find your dead bodies.”

“Hey!” Elliot yells, and steps forward to stop McKinney. He is cut off when something hard and metallic roughly meets the back of his head. His vision is engulfed in stars and he falls ungracefully to the ground. He thinks dully that he had forgotten about Lawrence, hadn’t even known the kid was armed. Fuck, this is falling apart a lot faster than I thought.

“Elliot!” Olivia gasps a few feet away.

Darkness threatens to overtake his vision, but he manages to keep himself from succumbing to the blow to his head. Pain slices through his skull, worse than the GHB hangover, but he forces his eyes to meet his partner’s who is on her knees with a gun pointed at her forehead.

“Actually, I think I want to have more fun with you two. You guys are so cute, pawing at each other all night long. Too bad I didn’t get a little piece of the action. In fact, I think you owe me, bitch.”

Oh, God, Elliot thinks in horror.

“How about you suck my dick, Olivia, while Elliot here gets to watch.”

She glares at him, curling her lips into a frown. “You put anything near my mouth, I’ll bite it off.”

McKinney glances over at Elliot, who has pulled himself into a sitting position. “Okay, but how about I kill your little boy toy if you don’t?”

Olivia falters for a second when she looks back to her partner. Elliot is unable to stop the fear from closing in, his face relaying the anguish he is usually so good at hiding. He can’t let this happen to her, he will never let her be assaulted while he sits back to watch. Even with Lawrence pointing a small pistol at his head. The kid hardly moves, like nothing about the situation has him flustered.

“Liv,” Elliot says, his tone desperate.

“I know, El!” she breathes, looks like she is forcing herself to control the urge to vomit. Or cry. She will do her damnedest to keep the rapist from seeing tears.

“I want to see your lips in action.”

“Why do you drug and rape women, Paul? Because you love having power over them? Or because you can’t get any through the traditional means? Girls always turning you down because you’re a fat worthless slob?”

“Oh, they loved every minute of it. They always do. I just like it when they’re loaded on GHB, because it makes them more fun.”

McKinney runs a hand through Olivia’s hair and pushes her head toward his crotch. “I think I may like this the most. Nothing like a challenge.” She rears away, but he thrusts her harder toward him. When she puts up more resistance, he digs the gun into her skin of her forehead, then points it in the direction of her partner. “Do it, or you can leave with your partner’s brain splattered all over you!” She hesitates, pressing her lips together, glancing at Elliot, eyes hardened and face a mask of stony determination. She knows then that he is planning to do something to distract McKinney, even if it means taking a bullet. He would rather die than watch her get raped.

It’s okay, he mouths, and she feels as though she has been struck in the middle.

Don’t be saying things like that, she wants to scream, it’s too final that way, like you’re accepting death! She’s seen him that way before, and it had left her reeling, like her entire world was falling away. She’d questioned everything about her sanity, her role in the SVU, her capabilities as an officer – she’d even begun to question her feelings for Elliot, and whether or not having said thoughts were at all appropriate.

The look in his eyes almost mimics the same one he had while Victor Gitano held a shotgun to his head and death had been a certainty. There is a finality to his expression, acceptance.

We do this together, she conveys silently, furrowing her brows. He nods his head once, a tiny movement that McKinney and Lawrence likely will not notice.

Commotion breaks out and just as McKinney falters, she takes the opportunity of diversion and shoots her fist into the growing bulge of the man’s pants. She shoves the hand holding the gun and scrambles to her feet, sending a well-aimed kick to the man’s side, just in time to see Elliot struggling with the kid for control over yet another gun. Christ, two unarmed cops up against two crazed, armed criminals, she thinks incredulously.

Olivia almost moves to help him, but she sees McKinney’s firearm lying free on the ground and leaps for it before the man can come to his senses. When she lands on her knees, her hand closes around the device, but the supreme joy is brief, when a vicious blow to her ribs and the reverberating snap of bone that accompanies blindsides her. As her breath is stolen from her, her grasp on the gun weakens, and she is suddenly flipped to her back with McKinney’s meaty fingers wrapped around her throat.

Lawrence is surprisingly strong for his age. Elliot’s arms burn with the effort of struggling to confiscate the gun. Both of their hands work to rip it away from the other, and finally the detective attempts to use the more compact strength of his body to win the fight. He throws himself toward the kid, causing the two to fall to the ground, and he can’t help but feel satisfaction rise up from the sound of Lawrence’s head cracking with impact. This does nothing to fluster the kid, because one of his fists connects with the underside of the detective’s chin. Elliot’s teeth clack together painfully and he can immediately tell that the jawbone is broken, because blood instantly wells up in his mouth and his teeth refuse to settle in their natural place. He is able to respond with a low hit to Lawrence’s abdomen, but his movement is slower due to the earlier strike to his head.

Elliot looks up just in time to see Paul McKinney’s body positioned on top of Olivia’s. Her face is chillingly discolored due to the man’s efforts to strangle her. She is clawing ferociously at McKinney’s arms, but her frantic actions are becoming increasingly feeble with every passing moment without oxygen. Meanwhile, the man is thrusting himself into her, getting his sexual kicks by dry-humping her while she struggles to breathe.

At that moment, the gun is the least of Elliot’s worries. “Liv!” he cries out, ignoring the flare up of pain in his jaw. He shoves Lawrence away with a kick and dives at the bigger man, tackling McKinney with all of his strength. Elliot hears his partner’s sharp intake of air and is temporarily relieved, but now must concentrate on gaining the upper hand. Just as she succumbs to a fit of coughing, he is using his adrenaline, fear, and anger to fuel the punches he is throwing to the man underneath him.

A gunshot erupts, and Elliot freezes in horror. Lawrence still had the weapon, Olivia had been left lying on the ground, and he did not have any sudden, painful sensations rushing through the flesh of his body.

_He feels like his heart is going to explode. That moment just after coming when his brain is turned off and he is literally incapable of processing actual thought. It had been a powerful sensation—he can still feel the walls inside of her contracting around him._

_He is mesmerized by the way she looks after the climax, with the gentle light hugging her body._

_Her cheekbones are flushed and she is slightly sweaty, pupils wide, making her eyes look fathomless._

_Wonder consumes him, and at that moment, he becomes a slave to her body. He has had the forbidden fruit and wants it over and over again._

“Liv—”


	10. Chapter 10

The crack of the gunshot splits the New York air, still resonating in his ears even seconds after the sharp report. Elliot watches the man underneath him breathe heavily, shuddering in painful spurts and letting out an almost inaudible groan. Paul McKinney’s face is bleeding and the man already looks like a battered lump, with the swelling from the scratches and blows he has taken from both detectives appearing as large welts.

Elliot isn’t shot. And Olivia has not made a noise. He knows something terrible has happened to her. He can’t breathe and his eyes burn. His lungs constrict with the need to expand, but he feels as though his heart is engulfing the expanse of his chest and he cannot seem to move under his own power. He is too horrified to even look over at his partner. Afraid of what he will see.

Elliot wills himself to move and spins from his position on top of McKinney, ignoring the danger beneath him and his own pain. He notices that Lawrence’s eyes are wide, glazed, while the gun clenched in his wobbling hand is trained directly at Olivia’s prostrate body. She is face down, turned away from him so that he is unable to see if she is alive or dead. He is instantly consumed with a newfound terror at the sight of blood splatter and his partner’s unmoving form. “Olivia!” he hears himself wail in an unfamiliar scream, a sound that is too guttural and desperate to be his own. His body freezes, is unable to move, his eyes are glued to her—watching for movement. Anything. All that he sees is a small pool of dark red accumulating underneath her.

No.

The harsh, tangled lump that had formed in his chest blooms into anguished dread, and he moves to get off of McKinney and toward her, but Lawrence, whose face is slackened in an obvious state of shock and disbelief, moves his hands so that they are positioning the weapon at him.

Elliot halts with his hands up harmlessly, taking care to make sure the kid can see that he does not intend to hurt him, that he just wants to see if Olivia is okay. “Lawrence,” Elliot whispers and it feels like the words come out from a knotted throat.

“Shut up!” the teenager shrieks, and his voice cracks childishly. He is trembling like a leaf in a wind storm and sweat is dripping freely down his forehead and temples. Elliot knows that people inexperienced with firearms are likely to do one of two things in tense moments like these—grow an itchy trigger finger with the iciness of a true gangster hardened by the thug life, or revert back to the frightened boy he knows is inside of this ruthless hoodlum, becoming overwhelmed with emotion over what has just happened, crumbling under the weight of reality and the consequences of his actions.

Elliot moves his hands down at his sides, focusing his attention on Lawrence. “My partner,” he says in a low voice that breaks. “She’s hurt. She needs help. Please, just let me check her to see if she’s alive.”

“Don’t move!” Lawrence shouts, and points the weapon back at Olivia, who is still lying on the cold ground, unmoving. “I’ll fucking make sure she is dead, I swear! I’ll unload the rest of this gun into her head if you don’t stop moving!”

Elliot glances at her again, and watches her fingers scrape the cement. The first sign of life. He feels hope shine through him for a moment and he closes his eyes a brief second to collect his wits and remain calm. He takes a deep breath. “How old are you, Lawrence?”

The boy’s face crumples in confusion. “What?” The gun hand shakes and he shifts from one foot to the other anxiously.

“You’re still a kid, right?” Elliot nods, waving his hands slightly to keep the kid’s focus on the topic and away from Olivia.

“I’m seventeen, but it’s not like my age matters now. I just committed a felony! The state of New York ain’t gonna cut me a break for shooting a police officer! What do you care if I’m a kid or not? You’re fucking with me, ain’t you?”

The detective moves closer to the kid with hardly perceptible steps taken with the same amount of caution had Lawrence been a king cobra, and away from the quivering form of the fugitive. “Not if you testify against McKinney. The district attorney may be lenient and offer a plea for your testimony. The state will take into account your age—that you are young enough to change—you have a future. You can make this right.”

Lawrence’s hand tightens around the gun and his expression twists in desperation. “I just shot a fucking cop in the motherfucking head, man! How can I make this right? And I am not a rat, so I won’t just give up my homeboy for a couple years of parole.” A sharp, unfriendly laugh erupts from his lips. “Even if she ain’t dead, I’m still looking at prison time!”

Elliot’s gut churns dangerously at the thought. Olivia has taken a bullet to the head. He is getting desperate. “Look, if we get her to a hospital, you may avoid being sentenced as an adult and facing life in an adult prison. This would mean you go to a juvenile facility and you serve a lot less time. I know you are scared, Lawrence. But make the right decision and let me get her help.”

The kid’s face twitches and spasms as he is overwhelmed with a multitude of emotion and fear. He looks perilously close to either cracking up or fainting. Elliot warily edges closer to him.

“I know you have some good in you, Lawrence. I know there are people out there in the world who love you and don’t want you to end up put away for the rest of your life because of this prick.”

“It doesn’t matter! I killed her and nothing will change that!” The statement is accompanied by a hysterical sob.

Elliot swallows dryly, and shakes his head, quickly glancing at her body. His mind soars—her feet are started to shift and her head is turning a little. Her face is still obscured by a cascade of dark brown locks, but he can see her chin and nose as she moves to rest on her other cheek. His heart slams against his ribcage at the sight of red staining her skin and matting strands of her hair. “We don’t know that, Lawrence. She may be fine. Please, just let me make sure. Despite everything that’s happened, you’ll win favor with the courts if you let her get medical attention.”

Lawrence’s tone drops and he suddenly sounds like a little boy. He is shrinking into himself, and his shoulders are drooping. “I shot a cop. You really think I’ll make it to court? You said it yourself; the police’ll get to me before I see a jail cell.”

“I said that to scare McKinney. Please, Lawrence. She needs me.”

The teenager’s body relaxes as though he is now acquiescing to Elliot’s earnest requests to help his partner, and he reduces his grip on the weapon.

Elliot dives at Olivia’s form like a man possessed, scrambling on his hands and knees and stumbling, until he is hovering over her body. He feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes and he gently places his hands around her arms and rolls her to face him. She is as limp as a ragdoll and her head lolls with a frighteningly lifeless quality.

She makes a minute sound and for a second he is seized with a fierce relief and hugs her to him. “Oh, my God, Olivia. Thank God.” He finally releases her, but places a hand at the back of her head as the other scrapes the hair away from her forehead and cheek. There is a nasty, open gash about two inches in length at her hairline that is still bleeding profusely, but her eyes are open to slits and she is breathing. The bullet had done nothing but nick her skull. She is still in desperate need of medical attention, but she is not dead.

Olivia’s lips part. “El,” she says faintly.

“It’s okay, Liv. I’m here,” he gasps, choking on the emotion that is fighting to surface. He pulls her to him once again, only to hear another resounding pop in the air and he flinches, once again waiting for a projectile to tear through his vulnerable flesh.

Instead, he can hear a boneless thump a few feet away from him and for a moment he is certain that Lawrence has just committed suicide. The boy’s long, brown fingers are still wrapped around the gun he had been brandishing, but there is no evidence that his weapon had just discharged, no smoke trailing out of its metal chamber, none of the typical signs he knows to look for.

Elliot’s blood freezes.

“Detective!” a deeper voice bellows.

McKinney is awake, and has sent a lead bullet into his younger counterpart’s forehead. With Olivia hugged against his chest, he turns to glance at Lawrence and knows immediately that the boy is dead. There is a single fatal wound in the center just above his eyes and brain matter is sprayed out visibly at least twelve inches beneath him.

The kid that McKinney had taken care of, taken into his home, partied with, treated like his own son had been shot by more than likely his most trusted friend, a man he likely looked up to as a father figure, his role sickeningly more profound resulting from the lack of a positive male role model. McKinney had murdered Lawrence without a quiver of an eyelash. While the boy had been struck with shock and emotion, this man has the cold, numb blankness of a hardened killer.

It is then that Elliot believes there is no chance that he and Olivia will make it out of this incident alive.


	11. Chapter 11

Out of all the trials and tribulations that Don Cragen has encountered during his tenure as captain of the Special Victims Unit, he is fairly certain that Elliot and Olivia have caused him the most stress and aggravation out of the entire bunch, and to take that crown requires quite a bit of talent seeing as he has a whole squad floor with a large number of bodies in order to base this analysis. Elliot is like a pit bull, transforming at one moment from a lovelorn sap willing to do anything to protect those that need him, to an obnoxious beast storming the place and bulldozing whichever poor fool that happens to be in his way—this usually ends up being his partner.

Olivia is the calmer version of Elliot, with a quicker sense of self-control and compassion, but harboring just as much tenacity and always willing to spar with him.

Despite the typical headache that Don gets every time something goes awry and an inevitable phone call from the higher-ups is in order, the two have proven their grit many times over, and are undeniably excellent detectives. This is primarily why he refuses to split them apart, even when such an action has been requested. No matter how many times he’s had to have a sit down with a table full of suits, he knows their abilities as investigators. Their dedication to the job and to each other is valiant, and he cannot help but feel a strange, parent-like concern for the two. He feels the same way about Fin and Munch, and whenever one of the officers in his close-knit squad gets into trouble, he tends to take it personally.

The feelings of desperation and dread come to no surprise after discovering that Elliot and Olivia have gone missing. They have been involved in countless scrapes before—Olivia has blurred the boundaries of law for the sake of people she hardly knows, and Elliot has put his ass on the line on many occasions for what he believes is right, often ending up nearly out of a job or confined to permanent desk duty—but something feels different about this go around. Don isn’t sure why this time he is so genuinely worried about his detectives. Maybe it is the look of dismay in Fin’s eyes, or the washed out, grim expression that has settled into Munch’s normally passive face.

Don pulls up to the Mott Haven parole and probation office off of Bruckner Boulevard and parks in the building’s garage with an abrupt screech of the tires. He doesn’t even bother to lock the doors of the sedan and instead rushes off to the entryway of an elevator. The thing smells like air fermented by car exhaust, old piss, and poor ventilation, but he gives it only minute, subconscious reflection as he thumbs the ‘3’ button after noticing that the parole and probation floor is on the third level. Before long, he is exiting the metal car and walking briskly down the hallway marked with arrows which lead him to the main desk. A woman immediately looks up, seeming suspicious and alarmed, that is, until he flashes his badge at her.

The people waiting to be seen around the room appear to blanch and squirm a bit at the presence of brass, but he pays them no mind.

“Can I help you, sir?” the woman asks, staring at him with wide brown eyes.

He shoves his badge back into his chest pocket. “My name is Donald Cragen. I’m the captain of the Manhattan Special Victims Unit. I need to speak with Kendra Flynn right away.”

The woman noticeably pauses. “Uh, Ms. Flynn is with a client at the moment. You can either wait or I can take a message—”

He shakes his head. “No. I need to speak with her now. I can’t express enough how urgent of a situation this is.”

Perhaps she realizes that he will not go away unless he gets what he wants by the steely determination in his gaze. She stands, pushing her squat body away from her computer desk. “One moment,” she mutters, then strolls out of sight.

Don shoves his hands into his pockets and begins to wear an anxious path into the thin carpet. His patience is diminishing considerably when his cell phone rings. He scrambles to fish the gadget out of his coat, glares at the screen of the small device, and notices that the caller is Fin.

“Yeah,” he says, hoping for a break. Anything.

The other man is competing with the surrounding noise in the background, obviously in a car. “I got all airports on high alert, and everyone is keeping their eyes out for anyone fitting Elliot and Olivia’s descriptions, but so far airport security and port authority ain’t seen nothin’.”

“Any sign of the limo?” Don asks, running a clammy palm over the back of his head.

“Only about half a dozen of the exact same make and model that Wilson gave us.”

“Did we have anything on a plate or vin? Are there any vehicles listed with the club as owner?”

“Nah, that’d be too easy. I ran a reg’ on the entire Wilson family—unfortunately nobody has owned a car since 1984. So far we ain’t been able to give a better description than a white limo with tinted windows. But we got people searching every parking lot and every drop off zone at every single airport in the area. They ain’t flyin’ anywhere without us knowin’, Cap.”

Don sighs, feeling briefly overwhelmed. “Where are you?”

“Driving west on the Brooklyn-Queens expressway. You need us to meet with you?”

The door leading to the offices opens, catching his attention. “Why don’t you and Munch speak with Carl Wilson—pump him for more information. Even if he won’t budge on their location, if you drill him hard enough, he’ll cough up a license plate. But I’ve got to go. Call me if anything changes.”

“Will do, Cap.”

At the threshold of the entrance is another woman, appearing younger and more preened than the first, who is peeking her head around the metal detector and smiling in a tight, yet cordial manner. The frigidness in her demeanor is palpable.

“Captain?” she asks, and then motions for him to follow her. “Cragen, was it?”

Don shakes her hand stiffly. “Don Cragen, Manhattan SVU.” He steps through the secured entrance, and a beeping alarm sounds. He lifts his jacket to reveal his holstered weapon, but she waves it off and the two continue to her cubicle.

“So, what brings the sex police to my office?” she inquires and takes a seat behind a desk with a mountain of paperwork stacked haphazardly.

He chooses to remain standing, even when she pulls out the plastic chair next to her desk which is usually designated for parolees. “Carl Wilson.”

Kendra Flynn, who is busying herself with a well-used manila folder, freezes in shock, briefly at a loss for words. “What—” she begins, narrowing her eyes, then shakes her head with a jolt. “What about him?”

“I need to know everything about him. His family, his priors, his stint in prison, and all of his parole records.”

Her mouth hangs open before responding. “Is he being investigated for a sex crime?”

Don folds his arms over his chest. “No, but were you aware of what he was doing with his spare time?”

“I am very careful with how I monitor my clients, Captain. I can assure you that Mr. Wilson is an excellent parolee and follows the conditions he was given by the judge down to a ‘t’.”

“So you don’t have any idea what he has been doing for the past year.”

“I keep into weekly contact with him, so I like to think I know his business, sir.”

Don presses his fingers into the palms of his hands in frustration. “Did you realize that he has been conspiring with an international fugitive and is being charged as an accomplice in the disappearance of two detectives?”

He expects the woman to act completely thrown, but instead she stares at her computer keyboard, visibly tense. This sparks his interest instantly, because either she is going to try to cover her ass or she is going to spill on something. And she had better, considering that she has been letting her client on post-prison supervision run around practically unregulated.

She finally meets his eyes. “I don’t believe it,” she says with quiet resolve. The protectiveness that she displays reminds him of his own willful refusal when concerns are raised about his underlings. “I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.”

“Well, excuse me Ms. Flynn, but I find that very hard to believe.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He takes a deep breath. “What I mean is either you are a lousy parole officer or you’re intentionally ignoring the fact that Mr. Wilson has been actively taking part in a drug smuggling and distribution ring with a well-known fugitive—maybe you’ve heard of him? Paul McKinney? One of the FBI’s top ten most wanted criminals—you’re client admits to having pretty regular business with him and has managed to drag his seventeen-year-old brother into the mix. Not to mention the man works in a strip club surrounded by drugs and alcohol, so he’d likely piss dirty if you bothered to do your work properly. Now tell me, are you intentionally ignoring this behavior, or are you just that sloppy?”

“I don’t appreciate your insinuation, Captain. I am a dedicated parole officer. I have been working in this department for almost ten years. I don’t give my clients any kind of leniency.”

“What the hell do you have to say about my missing detectives, then? Wilson admitted to taking part in their disappearance, but you seem to have your head too far up your ass to even notice!” Don can feel his ire burning, and the anger makes him feel good. He is finally able to direct the frustration he is feeling towards someone other than himself. “If my detectives wind up dead because of your negligence, you can bet on more than just a formal investigation. You can expect to see what it’s like to be on the other side of a jail cell.”

Kendra Flynn’s lips quiver, and he almost feels bad for laying it on her pretty harshly, but the bristles have yet to die down. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Tell me why Carl Wilson has been allowed to run amok like he has!” Her silence only douses that burning fury with more fuel. “You can either tell me right now, or I can have this entire office, namely your computer and files, after I get a warrant.”

She brushes dark red hair away from her forehead. “Please,” she says, feeling the eyes of her colleagues. “If I tell you everything, will you please keep me out of jail? I have two kids.”

“I will talk with the DA in your favor if you give me what I want, but I can’t promise you anything.”

Kendra hides her eyes in her hands after resting her elbows on the desk. “I know he’s been dealing drugs, and I know about McKinney. They’ve been working together for about a year and a half off and on.”

Don scoffs at the absurdity of her confession. “Why would you let this go on at the risk of losing your job?”

“I—I got involved with Carl a couple months after he got out of prison. He was clean for a long time, and doing everything right, I swear! And then he ran into McKinney one night in a Brazilian club. He wanted to start a major operation of bringing South American drugs to New York and get rich selling it to the trust fund kids he was always running into at the Gentleman’s Club.” She begins to emotionally break down, allowing tears to escape. “I gave Carl the money and access to help bring McKinney over the Mexican border, then…they would pay me to keep quiet.”

He stares at her hard, exasperated. “Why? Why would you sacrifice it all for a couple of criminals?”

She removes her hands from her face and they are wet. “Because I’m an idiot! I fell in love with him—I just didn’t think he would get right back into trouble! I didn’t expect for it to be anything more than a physical relationship but he knew I was violating the PREA act by sleeping with him and he used it against me. At first he threatened to turn me in if I said anything. Then the money started coming in and…well, I don’t make as much as I would like working here, so I just shut up about it. And, I didn’t want to see him locked up again. My children adore him and it may seem strange, but I really do love him!” She allows herself to sob openly, despite the astonished looks of the other men and women in the office.

Don’s phone rings and he pounces on it, answering without checking the caller. “Cragen.”

Fin barks into his ear once again. “Cap, you might want to turn up your ears, man! A Hudson County dispatcher called me after they got reports of shots being fired with our limo at the scene.”

Don feels a cold dread clutch his heart. “Where?”

“All the way over in Secaucus off of the New Jersey Turnpike. They’ve got an army on the way—it’s gone over the wire for all available units to respond.”

“We got an address?”

“Some industrial building over off of Castle Road. Where you at?”

“I’m with Carl Wilson’s parole officer right now in Mott Haven.”

“A’ight, I’ll meet you there!”

“Yep.” Don ends the call and silence fills the air for a moment. He pushes off of the cubicle wall. “Come on,” he snaps at the woman who is draped pitifully over her scattered paperwork. “You’re coming with me.”


	12. Chapter 12

Silence rings in the air and time stretches impossibly until a few seconds feels more like minutes—hours even—the tension thick. Elliot stares into the detached, icy, green eyes of the man who has committed murder right in front of two police officers without batting a lash. The man’s expression is complete blankness as he stares at the boy, no anguish noticeable. Elliot can’t stop a small shudder snake through his nervous system at the sheer callousness of this man’s actions.

He lets his glance roam McKinney’s form briefly to look for opportunities to gain an advantage, but Elliot quickly realizes that he is in a seriously underhanded position with Olivia practically unresponsive, no weapon, and no back up.

“Elliot?”

Olivia’s soft whisper startles him and he peers down, immediately noticing that her forehead is still streaming with fresh blood and it is sticking to his clothes and skin. Despite the injury, she looks more alert than he had previously assumed.

“Yeah, Liv?” he asks from the corner of his mouth, sneaking his gaze over the motionless teenager, then back onto McKinney, who is first letting his eyes skimmer franticly over the two detectives and then down at his young former ally. The man is scraping the fingernails of his exposed hand over his scalp, trembling violently.

“Lawrence is dead, isn’t he?” she asks, unwilling or unable to turn and view the carnage herself.

He nods bleakly and she grimaces, ducking her head and placing a hand over her eyes. Her fingers come into contact with the warm, sticky blood and she pulls them away, gawking at them as if the redness is a foreign substance.

“You okay?” he murmurs, and she nods and retracts slightly from the safety of his embrace. Elliot steels himself, and then turns to face the armed man; he channels every training class he has ever taken in the past twenty years in which he learned negotiation tactics. He’s never really been very good at talking suspects down without becoming too emotionally involved in the situation and letting rage take over rational thought—that’s really Olivia’s forte after all. Considering the magnitude of her injury, he has no choice at the moment but to take the wheel.

He disengages from his partner and holds up his hands, making sure that McKinney sees a yielding composure and less of a physical threat. Elliot swallows down the lump in his throat, slowly moving to his knees. “Paul—”

The man’s eyes transform from a glazed stupor to fierce hostility, and his body becomes rigid with fury. Elliot can see that the fugitive’s grip on the gun has tightened and is dangerously near the trigger. “Don’t even try to play me, man!” he shouts, his voice raspy and desperate. “I don’t negotiate!”

Elliot nods, watching the muzzle of the semi-automatic as it quivers and twitches in McKinney’s sweaty fingers. “Okay, we don’t have to negotiate. I just want to ask you a question. That’s it.” McKinney appears momentarily dumbfounded, and then barks out a harsh laugh.

“You must think I’m some idiot. Talking to police means giving up. You really believe I want to talk to you now? I’ve been on the run way too long to give a fuck about what you have to say.” His feet shift slightly, and he gradually moves toward Lawrence’s form on the ground.

Elliot watches uneasily. “Well, we’re here and you haven’t shot me or my partner just yet. Obviously, you want something. Think you could just answer one question so we can move this forward?”

The dealer sinks down with his gun remaining on the two detectives, and then scoops up the weapon from the limp hand of the young man under him. Elliot waits for a few seconds before continuing.

“What are your plans? How do you expect to get out of here?”

McKinney returns to his fullest height, doubly armed, but seems to consider the question and Elliot feels briefly triumphant for achieving even that small break. “I honestly can’t say. I just know I’m getting the hell out of New York. Make a run for the Canadian border, if I make it that far. You two really fucked this up for me, didn’t you?” He chuckles menacingly.

“You’re planning on just leaving this place on foot? You have one of the most recognized faces in America right now. How are you going to get anywhere without getting caught?”

“Well, Detective, I guess I’ll just have to cart your asses with me for protection. The NYPD would do a lot to protect their own, right?”

Olivia stirs behind them and Elliot turns slightly. “How are you going to do that, McKinney? With cops crawling all over the place, even taking us hostage to the border won’t do you any good.”

“Well, I could always kill you two right now and just take off. That what you want me to do? Might be easier to put a bullet in your skull anyway.” He shrugs his meaty shoulders. “I have killed people for far less of the hassle you have put me through.”

“Murdering us will only make it worse for you.”

McKinney smiles in a smug fashion, reminiscent of the picture Olivia had discovered on the wall of the man’s house. “I need to have some kind of insurance, so I think I want to keep you with me.” The leer grows as he rakes his eyes over her body. “Plus, I would sure like the company, sweetheart.”

The blip of a squad car breaks the silence, and in the near proximity, a multitude of cars can be heard pulling into the parking lot where the limo is sitting unattended. The crazed tension returns to McKinney’s features coupled with a renewed sense of desperation. Elliot is both intensely relieved and filled with dread all at once. Either the man will fire a shot at his face, or the two will be taken by force—as his prisoners.

“It looks like I don’t have many options at the moment anyway, does it?” McKinney shrieks, advancing on the two while brandishing a gun in each hand. “Get over here. Move it!” he barks. “Now!” He edges toward the door of the building, stepping cautiously backward. Without looking, he shoots at the small lock that had been fastened to the knob as a way to keep out intruders. The padlock sparks under the contact of the bullet and sends tiny pieces of metal shrapnel flying. “Get the fuck up now!”

Elliot stands, hauling Olivia up underneath his arm and holds his body so that she is at a farther distance and is shielded. In any other situation, she’d shove him out of her way and take on the danger without a blink of an eye, but she doesn’t even protest. He worries about her immediate willingness to let him take over as guardian—she’s done the same for him countless times with more courage. He ponders over how badly wounded she is and if it is potentially deadly; what will happen if she falls unconscious again? He’s dealt with some nasty injuries and bandaged quite a few scrapes, but he’s no paramedic.

McKinney waves at the building wildly, guns wobbling. The man’s fingers are wrapped around the triggers, precariously close to setting one off. “Inside. Go! Get moving!”

The two detectives inch forward until the fugitive grabs Elliot’s shirt and yanks him into the door. Olivia stumbles clumsily and falls to her knees, just as McKinney presses Elliot’s head into the steel door brutally with the muzzle of one of the semi-automatic weapons.

“Next time I say move it, I mean do it now,” the man hisses, bends down and clutches as much of Olivia’s hair as he can, dragging her into a standing position. She gasps faintly and Elliot is struck with fear and remorse. “Now, get inside.” He lets up only enough to allow the door to open, then shoves them into the shadows, and pulls the latch until only a sliver of light is visible. “Now shut the fuck up and sit down against the wall. If I hear either of you even sneeze, I will unload this gun into your head.”

A ceiling fixture is flicked on and the two detectives flinch at the suddenness of the sharp, fluorescent light. Elliot turns to look at McKinney quickly, then reaches for Olivia’s fingers as the man herds them over the cold cement floor until their backs touch the opposite wall. The room they are occupying is full of harsh, mechanical smells that remind him of old printers and filing cabinets. The corners of the ceiling have spots of black mold, and a yellow stain has seeped down the walls of the abandoned space that apparently once was an office.

The detectives glance at one another and slink down to the ground, huddling close together and clutching hands. The other man sits a few feet away facing them, both guns still cocked and ready to fire.

~*~

At the same time, a handful of patrol officers from the Secaucus Police Department are filtering around the industrial building with their weapons drawn and at the ready. A few take off for the old car lot, and others swarm around the fence that blocks off access to train tracks that run for miles along the shoreline of the upper bay.

A seasoned veteran of the force with a salt and pepper mustache leans down cautiously to check for a pulse on the young man lying on the cold ground, and he shakes his head at his young partner, fresh out of the academy who looks just about as adolescent as his high school-aged son.

“Dead?” the young officer asks, his naive brown eyes wide.

“Mm-hmm,” the older man states, grimacing at the flesh and blood splattered in several locations. “Call for an EMT as soon as this area is secure. Gunshots were heard nearby and the killer has quite a bit of room to run.”

“Can we do anything for him?”

“I don’t think so. See that under his head? Brain matter—he’s DOA. Pat him down carefully to check for ID.”

The younger man searches Lawrence’s clothing, then slowly pulls a leather wallet out of the back pocket of the youth’s jeans and opens it. Lawrence’s smiling school identification is revealed and the officer shows his partner. “There’s our boy.”

“I’ll get in touch with the SVU captain.”

~*~

McKinney has set one of his guns down in his lap and is busily preparing a scorched glass pipe by jamming crystallized shards into the bulbous end. The detectives watch warily as the dealer flicks a torch lighter and turns what appears to be methamphetamine into a smoking liquid, and McKinney inhales the noxious plume until he heaves out a large, thick cloud. The man systematically continues his drug consumption, filling the air with a heavy, chalk-like odor.

Olivia stares blearily with aching eyes, her head pounding mercilessly. She is tucked into her partner’s arms securely, but she does not allow herself to relax for even a moment being in the room with a man like McKinney. The drugs act as another channel to increasing delusions and paranoia. There’s no telling what could send the man off.

Elliot’s arm tenses around her, and she peers at him despite the dizziness such an action causes. He is wearing a mask of rage and determination, almost like a predatory animal crouched and waiting for a chance to pounce on his prey. Olivia feels warm thankfulness spread inside of her with the knowledge that he will do anything to guarantee her safety, even if it means the cost is his own wellbeing.

McKinney’s gaze snaps up and he swings to his feet with surprising nimbleness. “Let’s go.” He has shoved the drug paraphernalia back into the depths of his pocket and once again doubly arms himself.

Olivia stands with Elliot’s help and they are ushered out of the room and down a darkened hallway until they pass by an open room. She feels the cold metal of McKinney’s gun at her neck and she stops abruptly, breathing hitches in shock.

“Here. In here.” The man cruelly pushes them into the shadows, keeping them at gunpoint as he feels for the light switch and the room is shortly illuminated, revealing another room moldy and vacant. “On your knees and face the wall.”

Olivia and Elliot’s brief hesitancy incites sudden aggression and the man sends a kick to her side and snaps the butt of his gun into Elliot’s temple. “I said down!”

She falls awkwardly coughing and gasping, left to writhe weakly on the carpeted floor, hugging her ribs and unable to breathe.

“Liv,” Elliot groans, dropping down and hovering over her protectively. His temple is split open about an inch and is already welling up with blood. He holds out a hand. “Please, McKinney—”

The man’s eyes are bloodshot and his pupils are dilated until they are almost entirely black. “I would advise you to keep it to yourself. I will kill you if you don’t shut up.”

~*~

The other patrol officers position themselves near the door with the busted lock, handguns ready. The lead nods at the stream of light that is visible and he kicks at the steel door, slamming it into the wall as the officers file into the structure. Their radios are turned down to the lowest volume, so the only sound that emits from the deafening quiet is the minute squeak of leather and the rustling of heavy, department-issued uniform as it scrapes against solid Kevlar while the troupe slinks further into the bowels of the abandoned industrial building.

The lead officer motions at the others and points down the hallway, where a light is emitting from another back room. The others position themselves against the wall before stepping carefully until the lead comes into view of the room. The paneled glass window makes the fugitive visible, but McKinney moves fast, and holds one gun to the officers, the other at the detectives.

The glass explodes, causing a shower of tiny, razor sharp projectiles to litter the men as everyone crouches into a defensive position.

“Drop your weapons, McKinney! The place is surrounded!”

McKinney digs one of the guns into the crown of Olivia’s head, eyes ignited with the same kind of violence as a cornered mountain lion. “I’ll kill ‘em!”

“Let them go, McKinney!”

“Make one move and I’ll fucking kill her, I swear!” The fugitive shoves his weapon hard enough into the detective’s head to make her wince. “Don’t think I won’t shoot a woman! I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way! Now get the fuck out!”

The officers remain completely still. “We can’t let you do that, man. You’re threatening the life of two innocent people.”

“Get out!” McKinney shrieks wildly, flecks of spit and perspiration dropping onto Olivia when he shakes.

Elliot glances at his partner whose face is covered in congealing blood, stoically sitting, waiting. He would do anything to get one of those guns out of the man’s hands and away from his partner, who is staring dazed at the carpet.

“Let me talk to him for a minute,” Elliot calls out to the officers. “Let me just see what he wants, okay?” He listens intently to the heavy breathing of McKinney, then the acquiescence of officer’s footfalls as they pullback. The crazed felon finally releases Olivia and Elliot scrambles clumsily toward her. She is far too silent for his liking. “Liv? Hang in there, partner.”

McKinney cackles coldly. “That was awfully brave of you, Detective Stabler.”

“What do you want, McKinney? Let’s set some goals, try to be productive. What do you want out of all this?”

“I want to get the fuck out of dodge, genius,” he says after a moment of peering down the barrel of the semi-automatic as it is trained on the detectives. “That has proven pretty difficult since you two have shown up. But like hell if I’m going to go down without a fight.”

“Why do you have to take her?” Elliot demands, motioning at Olivia’s unmoving form, eyes hard. “Let her go and keep me with you instead. If you show compassion for her, then the authorities may show some leniency and give you what you want. Just…take me and let her leave.” Even though he is sincere, Elliot knows there is no way the NYPD would just hand over a car, a wad of cash, and a clear shot for Canada, but he’s desperate and will say anything to get McKinney to believe him.

Olivia raises her head finally, looking dizzy. “Elliot, no.”

McKinney snorts out a laugh. “Oh, don’t worry, princess. I don’t intend to start listening to Captain America any time soon.”

Before Elliot or Olivia can say more, a familiar voice sounds around the corner. “McKinney!” the voice yells. “This is Captain Donald Cragen—I’m from the Manhattan SVU. You’ve got my people in there, and I’d like to talk.”


	13. Chapter 13

Kathy’s mind has been on Elliot for nearly three days, and she has finally succumbed to her irritations. She has not seen his face the entire time—back in the good ol’ days it wasn’t unheard of for her to show up unannounced with kids in tow to check in with him…all the other police wives did it—and the last phone call he made came two nights ago, and was delivered in haste, almost like it was an obligation he owed to her. Hey babe, I love you and the kids. Gotta run. He couldn’t even give her five minutes to talk, let alone five seconds. So she is going to him, since she is sick of being put on hold.

She climbs out of her modest minivan and slings a baby bag over her arm, then pulls her son into her embrace from his booster seat. When Kathy walks into the squad room, she is moving indignantly, taking resolute steps, Eli positioned at her hip. Her jaw juts out firmly as she turns her head toward her husband’s desk, and rolls her eyes to the ceiling—naturally Elliot is not inhabiting it. Could she have come to expect less? Her husband is a horribly predictable man.

Of course he’s not at his desk, she thinks bitterly. He never is.

Eli is fidgeting, anxious to be set down so he can explore the assorted pens, papers, and electronics scattered on his father’s desk, but she strengthens her grip when he hurls his body downward and the toddler fusses, possibly sensing his mother’s annoyance.

_Late in the evening after Lizzie and Dickie have returned home and Eli is in bed, Kathy and Elliot are at odds. Pretty typical communicative effort—none at all, save for the bicker-fest. The mindless arguments have been occurring more often as of late, and each time she feels that much more fed up with him, even closer to signing their marriage’s death warrant with a call to a divorce lawyer and a quick visit to the courthouse downtown._

_It had started as they always do. He wants to isolate himself after a bad day and she insists on him spending time with the family._

_“I just need some space, Kath’.” He’s pacing like a caged lion around their room, arms insolently crossed. The Irish in her sets her irritation to just under boiling and she shakes her head with a scoff. She used to think that this little bull-headed personality quirk was cute, and was far more willing to give him breathing room if he needed it. Now it is annoying._

_“You’re not being fair to us, Elliot. We hardly ever see you anymore and when you finally come home, you hole yourself up away from everyone, it’s like you’re never even here! Don’t you think we want to see you?”_

_“I know you do, but I need to decompress after today. I can’t handle this right now.”_

_Kathy and Elliot come to stand on either side of their bed, staring each other down like sparring opponents. “Oh, please. Maybe you need to ‘handle’ it, at least for the kids. They miss you.” She really means that it is she who misses him and hates that she uses them to manipulate her husband, but acting as her children’s advocate has always worked on him in the past._

_He throws his undershirt over his head and tosses it in a heap onto the floor and she gawks at it, incensed. That one last bump she needs to send her to a boil. “God, El, I spend all day picking up this place. You think you could aim three more feet toward the hamper? Don’t you care about anything I do around here?”_

_Elliot bends down and retrieves it, tossing it at the little basket, frowning severely. “There.”_

_She shakes her head. “You are such an ungrateful bastard.”_

_He says nothing, but turns away and closes himself off in their adjoined bathroom with an audible click of the lock on the door handle._

_The iciness between them trickles into the night, and they both avoid touching one another when lying in bed. When she wakes up in the morning, he is already gone._

Kathy’s eyes scan the floor and she notices a number of detectives located in a group and they are surrounding a large flat-paneled screen. She gapes, exasperated that she does not recognize any of the faces and that no one bothers to even glance up at her entrance. “Excuse me?” she asks, waving an available hand, but goes unnoticed. “Hello? Anybody work here?” she calls, until a man swivels.

“Can I help you?” he responds, eying her suspiciously. He obviously does not realize who she is. He must be new. “My name is Detective Groves.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says in a sharp tone. “I’m looking for my husband.” She shushes Eli who is still thrusting his little body toward anything within his reach and grasping for anything with his tiny, pink fingers. “He’s been gone for over two days now. Have you seen him? Is he around?” Kathy’s expression is hardened, but she knows that the man before her is not to blame and is not aware of her and Elliot’s marital problems.

Detective Groves seems to bite back a grimace. “Is he an employee or was he brought in?” the man inquires, digging into his suit pocket and revealing a sticker in the shape of a police shield. Eli accepts the gift, calming almost instantly. “There you go, big guy.”

“He’s a detective. My name is Kathy Stabler. Elliot’s wife.”

The preoccupied grin on the man’s face fades, along with the color. “Stabler?”

She immediately senses the change and steels herself, just as she does whenever these situations come along. What now? she thinks. But something in her gut tells her that this isn’t any ordinary moment. “Yes. Where is he?”

“Nobody’s called you yet?” he asks, incredulous. “Shit,” he mumbles, raking fingers over his dark brown hair.

Her middle seizes. “What?” Oh, God.

Detective Groves glances back at the group, but they’ve since dispersed and are buzzing around the room, busying themselves with their respective duties and paperwork. “Let’s go somewhere more private.”

Kathy shrugs out of his grip when he touches her elbow, feeling desperation slink into her chest. “No!” she shouts, and ignores the answering stares. “Tell me what is going on!”

Groves moves a little closer and speaks softly. “Your husband has been located—”

“Located? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

She is making him nervous, as he is squirming slightly. Definitely a rookie. “Uh, he was missing for several hours. We were only able to establish his and Detective Benson’s whereabouts about an hour ago.”

Kathy’s grip on her son momentarily weakens, but she is able to hold him at her hip anyway. “Where were they?”

“I can’t give you all the details, because they are still in development, and I don’t want to give you any incorrect information. I’m not sure where they were, but they were working undercover at the time.”

“Fabulous,” Kathy snaps. “So when will he be back?”

“I’m not sure. Detective Stabler is in the middle of a hostage crisis at the moment.”

Kathy’s face reddens, and she presses her lips into a thin line. The anger she’d entered the squad room with dissipates quickly and is replaced with crushing guilt. She waits a few moments, then looks up. “Is he okay?”

Groves shrugs. “We don’t know.” Finally, she allows the man to escort her to a chair and she places her son on the ground. “Do you want something to drink? Is your son hungry?”

She shakes her head and peers at the large screen, noticing for the first time that the hostage situation has made breaking news. The bird’s eye view from a helicopter reveals the top of a drab, gray building, surrounded by a multitude of patrol and tactical vehicles, all alit with flickering red and blue lights.

~*~

Fin and Munch pull up in their sedan to sheer pandemonium. The building is completely encircled by patrol and unmarked units, and the street has been cordoned off by blockades and yellow caution tape. Fin brings them to a halt and the two men hop out, badges ready for the officers guarding entrance to the area beyond. The man nods at their identifications, and Fin and Munch jog over to a suit who is busy talking to another man who is armed with a massive Colt CAR-15 and an H&K MP5, as well as less lethals, gassing agents, and stun gear—heavy artillery pretty standard for the Emergency Services Unit.

“Excuse me, sir,” Munch says cordially as they approach. “What’s the progress?”

The man looks at them, taking in their disheveled appearance with an air of irritation. “You are..?”

Fin answers in his usual growl. “I’m Detective Tutuola, and this is my partner Detective Munch. We were working with Benson and Stabler when they went missing.”

The man shakes both of their hands. “I’m Special Agent Reiners, with the FBI.”

The fully-garbed ESU member with seasoned wrinkles and a permanent frown also greets them. “Deputy Chief Howard, ESU.” The detectives look at each other with raised brows. Not very often someone of this rank decides to drop in on such an outing.

Agent Reiners lifts his lips into a solemn grin. “We were able to establish a brief conversation with the suspect, but at the moment he is unwilling to negotiate at all. Your captain is currently trying to talk to him, but McKinney isn’t responding well.”

Munch grimaces at what his co-workers could be undergoing while he and Fin are idly standing by. “What about Benson and Stabler? Have you been able to find out if they’re alive?”

Reiners nods vigorously and holds up a blueprint of the building, pointing at a small room off to the left. “From what we understand, they are in this room. Stabler was able to communicate with Captain Cragen that Benson has been injured, but they are otherwise okay. From what we’ve been able to gather, McKinney is armed with two handguns, unknown how much ammo he’s packing. He’s already fired off a shot at some of the local guys, and may have executed little friend behind the building.”

“Wilson’s dead?” Munch asks, a pang of sadness rushing through him as he remembers Esther and her earnest certainty of Lawrence’s innocence.

Howard nods. “Single shot to the forehead, pronounced DOA. We haven’t been able to remove his body just yet, but as soon as the building is secure and McKinney is neutralized, we’ll have him transferred to the ME’s office.”

Fin and Munch both glance sideways, where an ambulance sits behind the barricade. Fin responds just as a troupe of ESU guys collects for a huddle amongst themselves. “You plannin’ on flushing him out? How you gonna do that without hurting the detectives?”

The FBI agent sighs. “Their plan is to try negotiating with McKinney without elevating his level of distress—reach him through building rapport and active listening, but if it doesn’t work, they want to utilize other means.”

“Like tear gas?” Fin barks, jaw agape.

“Yes, that’s something we will consider. It’s a momentary discomfort, but it should effectively debilitate the suspect and Benson and Stabler can be treated as soon as possible.”

~*~

Olivia is fighting the urge to doze off, but she forces herself to stay alert despite the difficulty. The bullet furrow in her skull is throbbing and sending a sharp pain throughout her head with each heartbeat. She tries to blink and breathe her way past it, but she is unable to climb out on top of the feeling. Sleep seems overwhelmingly tempting and she believes that she deserves a little reprieve after what she's had to endure. It certainly does not help matters when Elliot's body is pressed into hers and enveloping her in warmth like a damn blanket. Despite the hard edges and solid planes of his body, she finds him strangely comforting, like it would feel so amazing to lay her head on one of his broad shoulders and relax. It would be so easy to simply slip off into dreamland knowing he’d be there to hold her up.

McKinney has been pacing and ranting, exchanging words with the disembodied voice of their captain, who has spent the better part of an hour rapport-building to no avail. Mentions of McKinney’s siblings, mother, father, friends, childhood, even the Wilson boys seems to have zero affect, and the drug-addled man only appears more aggravated by the mention. It stimulates him into angry verbal outbursts, occasionally brandishing the guns and jabbing them in their direction, or nervously muttering to himself.

Olivia's eyes can no longer hold onto Paul McKinney's manic form as his scuttling movements are making her eyes hurt and concentrating on a way to escape has become impossible. Instead, she opts to studying the dirty walls of the small room and then at the sky blue color of Elliot's dress shirt, spattered with crimson flecks that have aged to a coagulating brown.

He must sense that her eyes are on him, because she feels him turn until his chin presses the top of her head and the scratchy, unshaven skin of his throat hugs her forehead. "You okay?" he whispers softly from the side of his mouth.

Olivia nods her head weakly. "I'll be fine." She sounds pathetic and she knows he can see through her shaky façade. He doesn't seem to care, and instead wordlessly pulls her tighter to his side.

She stares at his right hand, the one littered with scars and still crusted with dried blood around the cuticles, wondering how many times she has seen the same kind of cuts and bruises lining the tops of his knuckles. They are swollen and his pinky finger is twice its normal size. During her examination, she feels herself begin to experience a fuzzy kind of sensation that a person endures right before a fainting spell. Darkness begins to seep into her vision and she immediately recognizes the symptoms of loss of consciousness, bolting upright and alarming her partner.

"Olivia?" he asks and it sounds unusually loud. He grips her arm. "What's wrong?"

She glances at McKinney who is watching them menacingly, then back at Elliot, who looks almost sick with worry. "I don't know," she mumbles, then grabs onto his forearms in an effort to stay awake. The injury is beating out her iron will, however, as her body is weary from all of the emotional stress and the trauma—now it wants to shut down.

Olivia falls back into his side, and then she is teetering between a state of lucidity and delirium. One moment she is listening to the fugitive's incoherent babbling and the next she is remembering—

_The incredible warmth of his mouth encircles the skin of her breast just as his fingers skim up the length of her thigh underneath her pencil skirt. His hands are weathered against the softness of her leg, and he bites at the flesh of her torso. The feeling of excitement, pleasure, and pain easily short-circuit any attempt on behalf of the logical side of her brain for her to use rational thought._

_It's all about sensation right then._

_His fingers circle around her leg to cup her ass and the feeling elicits a light gasp to escape her lips. She presses herself closer to his body, immense gratification overpowering the steely veneer of control she has built up for over a decade._

_His hands rake up her skirt and slide over the expanse of her back and up into her hair. She feels his hands scrape through the strands, but her head begins to ache._

_Throbbing, actually._

Olivia is on her back when she opens her eyes and for a brief moment, she forgets where she is. She thinks back to her memory and wonders if it had all been a fantasy-rich dream that her sick mind had concocted or if any of it is real.

Her vision adjusts to the lighting and she recognizes Elliot's face looming over her, but not the terrified expression. It doesn't take long for her to remember the past day's events, with the repugnant, unkempt walls enclosing around them, the thin, fetid flooring under her, and the unnatural halogen glow of the light above them. She swallows drily, then remembers mindlessly that she has not had water in over twenty-four hours.

"Stay with me," Elliot says with his hand at the back of her neck. "You gotta stay awake, Liv. If you have a bad enough head injury, you could slip into a coma." She is almost amazed at the extent of dread she can distinguish in his voice. He has been relatively detached in the last year or so, hiding his emotions from her when before he'd laid them bare for everyone to see.

"Elliot, it's all right," she tries to tell him, but her mouth doesn’t operate well. All that escapes is a pitiful groan.

"Dammit!" he snaps.

The last thing she hears before sliding back into oblivion is the sudden, sharp rise in noise and then nothing.

~*~

Elliot's eyes have been nervously following McKinney as the man continues to wear a trench into the sparsely carpeted floor of the office. Every time the man gets close, he gets a nauseating whiff of the fugitive's perspiring body, which is emitting a rancid, sharp aroma that is similar to cat urine. It's an assault on the senses, and despite trying to control the queasy feeling in his gut, he cannot contain a sickened cough. The action forces his teeth to grind together awkwardly, and he is reminded that his jaw is probably broken. The left side of his face has become increasingly puffy and swollen, harder to swallow. Thankfully Cragen has ceased his attempts at gaining intel by way of Elliot, in fact, the stillness in the rest of the building creating a nascent sense of foreboding.

Olivia’s disturbing silence is increasing his worry because he fears that shock is settling in, even with him tapping her on the arm and whispering at her to keep her awake. Her level of alertness, from his own experiences with head injuries, indicates a concussion. He prays for nothing worse than a little bit of a crack to her skull with no lasting damage, but he knows personally how sketchy such a wound can be—he thinks back to his head bouncing from Saul Picard’s cast iron head to a car window behind him and the blindness that accompanied the injury—he had been terrified of what that could have become.

Elliot feels concern and anxiety that she is leaning so heavily into him, relying on his strength when she is unable to provide herself any. He glances down into her face and hates how pallid and grey her features are. Her eyes look glassy and dark, and her skin is washed out. The lips he'd so feverishly devoured just the night before have absolutely no color to them.

"Liv?" he asks, realizing that she is staring off, unfocused. The image is disconcerting and he shakes her shoulder lightly. "Olivia!"

She jerks away from him, appearing startled. Her expression has a wild kind of alarm to it and Elliot feels the dread that had been smoldering inside of him swell uncontrollably. She looks like she is on the brink.

"Olivia?" he asks, snatching her in order to keep her from toppling over. She glances around as if confused for moment, then back at him, her eyes penetrating into his. She will never admit to it, but she is scared. "What's wrong?"

She seems to shake off the sudden sensations she is experiencing, muttering something and settling back against his side. Elliot braves a quick look at the wound on her head that he'd rather shoddily wrapped with one of the sleeves of his shirt. It is an open gash, thankfully not bleeding any longer, but he cannot tell how severe it is from his perspective.

McKinney is now studying them curiously with twitching hands, and Elliot uneasily waits for the start of a long-winded stream of hysterics from the man.

"I just knew it. I knew you two were cops. I had a feeling and I should always trust my instincts. I knew it."

"Paul, are you willing to talk now?" Cragen calls in from the broken window. "Speaking to me is the only way we can end this situation without bringing more violence into it. We want to get you help. I know this is what you want. Please, talk to me. Say something to help yourself out."

The fugitive cackles. "There's nothing that can be done, man." He checks one of the pistols with a quick slide of the barrel. "I'm seeing things real clear now. My brain is on a level beyond anything anyone will ever understand. Nobody can touch me."

"Paul," Cragen yells out. "You sound like you desperately need someone to chat with you. Do me a favor, will you please? Don't hurt yourself, and please don't hurt anyone else. I want to talk to you."

"You'll do whatever it takes to get me to put these guns down so you can burst through the door and take me back to prison in chains. I know what you're about. You don't care about me! All you care about are these lying sacks of shit!" Elliot winces when the man waves one of the weapons in his direction.

Olivia's arm flops limply, and for the second time he is aware that she has passed out once more. The severity of what this means sinks into the pit of his stomach like a stone.

"Olivia!" he gasps, turning to place her gently to the floor. Her head falls back bonelessly. "Oh, God, not now, Liv!"

McKinney stalks up to them threateningly, leaning over Elliot. "What the fuck is going on?"

"She's unconscious, goddammit! She needs medical attention right now!" Elliot snaps, not caring that the fugitive has a ridiculously short fuse and could lash out at any given moment.

The deranged man makes a deriding sound and pushes off from his knees. "Man, fuck her. The bitch is probably faking it." Elliot watches him in murderous disbelief and shakes his head.

"Paul?" yells Cragen, in yet another feeble attempt to get his attention.

"What? Shut up! Get away from me!"

Elliot leans over his partner and realizes that she is blinking in confusion. He grins in relief, but it is temporary. "Liv," he says, wrapping a hand gently around the base of her skull, cradling the nape of her neck. "Stay with me." He starts chattering anxiously about brain injuries and comas to keep her awake, but she waves it off with a weak hand, almost seeming irritated with his coddling.

She makes a small noise, and he is struck with dismay when her eyes roll back and she drifts away again.

He chokes on frustration, but does not have long. McKinney is staring sharply at the shattered remains of the office window and Elliot follows his gaze to study the darkness of the hallway. His trained eyes see the slight movement of a shadowy figure.

Shit.

"I'm killing both of 'em! I'm gonna kill as many as you pigs as possible, and then myself! How can you lock me up then?"

Elliot hears the tinny clamoring of a metal canister hitting the ground that is soon followed by a hissing noise. He knows perfectly well what it is. The device explodes just as he throws his body over Olivia's.

The door to the office slams open seconds later.

~*~


	14. Chapter 14

The room is dark, but there is a small puff of smoke billowing into the fermented air. Its toxic effects will take less than half a minute to have its desired reaction on the human body. Elliot remembers it quite well—one of those demented requirements to pass basic training just before being shipped off to take part in Operation Desert Storm, and then once again at the police academy, except then he’d been pepper sprayed. Same reaction both times. Uncontrollable drooling, mucus pouring from the eyes and nose…he’d even vomited.

He untucks his shirt and covers Olivia’s face with it, tries dolefully to duck his nose into the crook of his elbow. Not enough. The exposure to his skin causes the nerve endings to prick uncomfortably until it begins to sting, kind of like a sunburn. Pretty soon he’s swiping his dribbling nose into his arm and then it hits him hard. Everything in his face revolts against the harsh chemicals floating around in the air and he coughs, gags, and then attempts to aim his mouth away from his partner’s just in case he ends up puking. He’s not sure if he has enough left to come up, since he’s certain there is nothing in his stomach anyhow.

Right as he groans from the abject misery of this shit situation, hands grab him around the shoulders and yank him to his feet. He can’t see—his entire face is streaming in his own fluids and he’s trying not to dry heave—so he blindly stumbles with whoever has him by the bicep. Could be the devil himself and he’d never know.

“Come on, Detective,” says an unfamiliar voice. Another large hand claps him on the back, guiding him down what he presumes is the hallway McKinney had forced them down at gunpoint.

Olivia—he resists momentarily, but he can’t even open his mouth without letting snot dribble in past his lips.

“Don’t worry about your partner,” somebody says to the left of him. “We got ‘er.”

~*~

Fin and Munch are standing close when they hear Deputy Chief Howard give the go ahead to use tear gas to incapacitate the suspect. Their eyes stare toward the metal door, attentions sharpen after the explosion of the tear gas canister, and they both find themselves in motion once bodies emerge. A scattering of ESU with a bumbling figure that still has the ability to look menacing. McKinney.

“2684,” Howard’s radio chirps.

The man hardly even moves, doesn’t even blink as he responds into his headset. “This is 2684, go ahead.”

“This is 386, the suspect is 10-95.”

“Copy, 386.”

Fin is straining his ears to listen to the conversation, when Munch jostles him. Fin glances up and follows his partner’s line of sight.

Elliot is being guided out by Cragen and the serious-looking FBI agent, and an ESU guy has Olivia’s limp form in his arms.

“Get the paramedics over here,” their captain shouts. “And get that piece of shit over there some oxygen. He’ll need it.”

~*~

The entire ambulance ride is tense as Elliot sits next to Olivia’s stretcher, watching her movements, trying to decipher the terminology being tossed about by the medics, and examining her vitals at the same time. He’s insisted on riding with her despite the fact that they want him on a stretcher as well. The obstinate ass in him had refused to part with her while she was being loaded into the ambulance, but the captain and medics hadn’t seemed that interested in objecting. They don’t care, as long as he keeps an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and stay out of the way.

As he holds her hand and falls back into the wall of the cab, Elliot is finally able to assure himself that they are all right, physically at least, and that they can get through this. They have been partners for too long, been through too damn much for it to fall apart now.

Her gaze is on him and he knows it. She is coherent, studying his demeanor, analyzing every turn of his head, every sigh. He knows, because he does this to her on a daily basis. Their eyes meet and hold. The medics have cleaned up most of the blood covering half of her face and she looks less like an extra in a B-rated horror flick and more like the woman he knows so well. A thick piece of gauze has replaced his impromptu bandage and has been taped to her forehead. Her nose and mouth are obscured by an O2 mask, but her eyes are lucid and clear.

Elliot would clench his jaw to force back emotion and swallow, but his teeth refuse to settle in their natural position and every time he moves it, he tastes the ruddy iron of blood welling up inside his mouth. The awkward placement of his teeth forces him to leave his jaw a little slack and blood continues to dribble out the corners of his mouth. He’s quite a sight. The surface of his eyes still burn from the tear gas exposure despite being flushed with water for a good ten to fifteen minutes—he wipes them gently.

He feels Olivia’s hand leave his for a moment only to find his available forearm. She rubs carefully with her thumb.

The pain doesn’t really set in until they arrive at the hospital and the adrenaline wanes. The second they pull into the ambulance bay of the Hoboken University Medical Center, he starts to feel it everywhere. The left side of his face feels puffy and sore, the base of his skull and his temple throb, and his right hand, which has taken an inordinate amount of abuse of his own accord over the years has a familiar inflamed ache to it. The medics have it wrapped in a stiff splint, but it has done little to alleviate the throbbing.

Even though the entire ordeal lasted mere hours, he feels exhaustion roll over him in waves.

He continues to gaze at his partner just before the doors open and they share a troubled and intimate exchange of unspoken words. She can’t say much through the mask, but with her slight frown and wide eyes, he understands what it is that she is thinking. He casts a lop-sided smirk. “’S’okay,” he mumbles. Her eyes smile and fingers squeeze harder for a moment. The doors swing open and her stretcher is pulled out of the back of the rig and gently unfolded before being whisked into the emergency room. Elliot is given a hand hopping down from the cab and he offers a quick ‘thanks’ before jogging briskly into the sliding double doors.

Elliot only catches a glimpse of the feet of Olivia’s stretcher as she enters into a trauma room and instead of shoving his way into the space and insisting on staying at her side, he pauses to stare into the window. He knows that he’ll likely just be ushered out of there if he tries to bully his way in. Anyway, he has no energy to argue. He treads pitifully to the nearest wall and sinks down onto a plastic chair in time for one of the paramedics to approach him.

“Detective Stabler?” the man asks, bending slightly to meet his line of sight. “Want to come with me to a trauma room? You need to get yourself checked out.”

Elliot huffs a tremendous sigh and heaves himself out of the chair, following the younger man wearily. He’s in no mood to argue about his condition, and he knows that he cannot leave his hand and jaw the way they are. He saunters into a trauma room and climbs onto the bed, and then allows the medical personnel to take his vitals. He answers their questions in a daze with solemn grunts and half-hearted replies, hardly registering what they are asking or what he is saying in response, that is, until someone presses an ice pack against his left cheek. He immediately reacts with a wince and suddenly the world around him is full of noises, activity, and sharp smells.

Cragen and a man in a crisp, black suit are standing near the door when they both acknowledge Elliot’s pointed stare. The captain’s arms fold as he regards his detective. “You up for answering some questions, Elliot?” Calm but unyielding.

A female voice sounds behind him, but Elliot doesn’t turn to see the owner of it. “He shouldn’t be talking at the moment, at least until we rule out a broken jaw. Can this wait until later?”

“It’d be better if we can get a statement while it’s still fresh in his mind,” Cragen says to the woman.

“I’m sorry, but there’s already been enough trauma to the area. There could be permanent damage if we’re not careful.”

Elliot feels a little like he’s reverted back to his childhood, when he and his brothers and sisters would find themselves in the middle of arguments between Joe and Bernie, where they found themselves the topic of conversation, but their parents were too immersed in their petty bickering to notice that they were present.

The suit—Agent Reiners—smiles thinly. “Sure. See you in a bit, Detective.” He leaves quietly, while Cragen remains fixed at the entrance.

“You need me to get you anything?” he asks.

Elliot swallows carefully. “Go see Liv.”

Cragen nods, and then pushes through the door, leaving him to a woman in blue scrubs, likely the resident doctor, who tilts her head at him in concern. “Try to avoid moving your mouth, and keep the ice pack on your cheek,” she says, repositioning the bag over his jaw. “It’ll take the swelling down some.” She turns to the others in the room. “I need that x-ray down here, and Millie, call an oral maxillofacial surgeon.” She shines a penlight in his eyes, flitting it back and forth, touches the wound on the side of his head, feels at the back. She stops and a grimace withers her expression. “How’s the headache?”

He lets out a stifled chuckle.

“Don’t answer that.” Her face slackens stoically. “How hard were you hit in the head? I feel two pretty gnarly goose eggs.” Elliot shrugs. “Okay, so we will need a CT scan to rule out concussion.” She moves her fingers down his right forearm testing the bone and he only jumps when she pushes into his last two knuckles. “Probably a boxer fracture.” She shakes her head in exasperation. “I sure as hell hope he looks worse than you do.” Her smile is derisive.

Elliot groans, hardly surprised by her knowledge of the situation. “I hope so,” he whispers and moves his head carefully when the door to his room pushes open. His heart sinks when it isn’t his captain, Munch, Fin, or the man in the suit, but a nurse tugging in a bulky portable x-ray. He turns toward the woman in blue scrubs. He mutters in a low voice, “Heard anything about my partner?”

The doctor pats his shoulder. “I’ll have someone come in and let you know as soon as I can. But let’s worry about you for now, okay? And no more talking, I mean it.”

He nods, lies back uncomfortably, staring into the machine positioned over his head. He finds himself thinking of Olivia, imagining holding her weak body, watching the color drain from her skin, and he feels a momentary panic engulf him. Why were they evading his question? Where is Cragen? Are her injuries life threatening? If and when she recovers, will they continue to be work together or have they wrought too much destruction to an already tenuous platonic friendship? What is he going to say to her now that things have been said and lines have been crossed?

~*~

It has been three hours and Elliot has now been moved out of the emergency department and off to one of the upper floors until the doctors finally decide to release him. They have him held hostage with a slow-dripping intravenous antibiotic, and he is feeling antsy, although no longer in pain.

The sadistic bastard of an oral surgeon has had his mouth wired tightly shut, and even though he is able to grumble out a few words, he has grimly accepted a dry erase board and marker for communication—at least until he gets the hang of speaking around all of that hardwire. The last time he had seen any hospital personnel had to have been an hour ago, and he really would appreciate some kind of new information regarding Olivia. He has a call button, but what it is he going to do with that, really? It’s not like he can say anything.

His right arm has been rendered useless, since his doctor decided the break was bad enough to warrant an actual cast instead of a brace, which he would have clearly preferred. The doc had insisted it only needed to be on for three to six weeks, and he thinks humorlessly of what this really means—at least a month of drinking meals out of a straw and writing on a dry erase board in handwriting that looks worse than a kindergartner’s. He’ll be fortunate if anyone will be able to understand him at all. Only three to six weeks? Lucky him.

A soft knock at the door draws his attention away from the television hanging from the ceiling, and he is only mildly shocked to see Kathy and Eli tiptoeing in, guided by his nurse who slinks over to his side and checks his IV bags.

Eli babbles innocently as he totters over to his father’s bed once the nurse is done scribbling down his stats. The toddler’s tiny hand grabs at the tubing within reach, but Elliot is quicker than his son and he moves it out of the way before any damage can be done. He smiles affectionately at the little blond boy. His left hand runs over the soft curls, and then glances up to meet Kathy’s blistering, angry expression. She waits for the nurse to leave before saying anything.

She stands at the foot of his bed, thin arms folded into her chest, looking as guarded and defensive as always. “You doing okay?” she asks, the words failing to convey the iciness in her tone. He knows why she is pissed. He knows she will have trouble forgiving him for putting his life on the line, for going under when she has asked him not to and ignoring the need to call her. His mind races as he recalls the encounter with Olivia—God, how it felt to be with her—and he almost feels sick with what he must tell her, how she will truly hate him.

He nods, staring at the dry erase marker and board, wondering if he should scribble the ugly truth in writing, or wait until he can open his mouth to say the words himself.

Kathy looks at the ceiling and sighs, sitting on the foot of the bed. “I can’t do this anymore, Elliot.”

Here it comes, he thinks. Eli climbs onto the bed and sits next to him, silently observing his parents with a somber pout, then grabs the TV remote and begins punching random buttons.

Elliot just blinks at her, so she continues. “I don’t know how many times we have talked about undercover jobs, and the fact that you promised you wouldn’t do it anymore. I didn’t hear from you for two days before I finally got fed up with waiting and had to be told what was going on by some guy working on the unit.” She stands restlessly, walking toward the door and back again. “It’s become increasingly clear what is most important in your life. It sure as hell isn’t me or the kids.”

He lets out a muted scoff, but she just glares and shakes her head. “It may not be what you want to hear right now, Elliot, but you knew it was coming. Things haven’t been the same since Eli was born, and I haven’t been happy for a long time. I thought having a baby would change things, but we’ve been avoiding the real issue, and nothing is different than before. I can’t handle it, I just can’t!” She presses a frail hand to the bridge of her nose. “I’m glad you’re okay, and I’ll help you through recovery, but…I think we’ve finally hit a dead end. I-I’m filing for another divorce.”

Kathy begins pacing again. “Come on, sweetie; let’s go get sister and brother. Say bye-bye to Daddy.”

Eli mutters a good-bye and Elliot grimly presses his mouth against his son’s cheek. With that, Kathy picks up the boy and whisks out of the room, leaving Elliot to stare miserably at his own feet.


	15. Chapter 15

His eyes are closed, but he never remembers closing them. He gets the strong sensation of toppling over the edge of some unknown, dark abyss and his muscles seize, waiting for the sudden impact. He startles, and his body comes alive then, his eyelids parting.

At first, Elliot stares curiously at the paneled ceiling of the room, eyes following the speckled tile squares above him until they trail down the wall and land on his blanket-covered feet. His head feels like a split melon, and frowns, bringing his useless right hand up to his cheek, cupping it gently. The injury and subsequent oral surgery has caused his face to balloon. He pushes lightly with his pointer and middle digit—the only available fingers besides his thumb—and he notices the swelling entirely encompasses the left side of his face. He probably resembles Quasimodo right about now.

Elliot lets his hand come to rest back onto the bed as he thinks back on the past twenty-four hours, but it all seems to have faded into a surreal dream—as if the drugging and the hostage situation were something from a melodramatic, overacted ‘80s action movie. The edge of his tongue hits the stiff wires weaved neatly around each tooth, clamping them shut. Certainly feels real enough.

He glances over to the left and notices that the window reveals the time of day. The darkness of the Secaucus night is lit up by the ghostly radiance of the orange security lights surrounding the building. How long has he been sleeping, really? The last thing he remembers is Kathy walking out of his room after declaring her dissatisfaction with their marriage. Something they’ve said to one another a number of times throughout their two decades together and have only followed through with once. The remains of bitterness and hostility are still present in the room; the tick of the clock, the soft beeping of the heart monitor, and background noise outside his door all remind him that Kathy is no longer present, no longer willing to sustain their marriage. She is definitely more sincere about splitting up this time. Hell, he doesn’t blame her. Not anymore.

Elliot searches the room for the existence of a clock, slowly pushing himself into a sitting position and swinging his feet over the side of the bed. A hospital gown has replaced his bloodied shirt, and everything else, apparently, he thinks, letting his bare feet sink to the cold floor as his vision falls upon the hour above his head. Well past midnight.

His mind fills with Olivia and his middle clutches with dread. They never bothered to give him an update on her condition, and he really has no idea what to expect. She’d passed out a couple times after the bullet bounced off of her skull, and he’s no medical expert, but he is pretty sure that losing consciousness indicates something bad.

Elliot notices that the IV line in his arm has been replaced with a white cotton ball and clear tape, so he shoves to his feet, grabs at his things that have been shoved unceremoniously inside a plastic patient bag, and moves toward the door after slipping on his clothing and shoes. His shirt is splattered with tacky, dried-up blood and terribly wrinkled. He pulls it out and examines it, then shoves it back in, deciding against it. Looks like Night of the Living Dead, geez. He feels physically weighted down by the day’s events—his shoulders are stiff, his jaw and arm throb, and his knees twinge with every step, but he chooses to grit his teeth and ride out the pain.

There are only a couple people in the hallway when he emerges from the door, but they seem too busy to notice him. He wanders off to the right and passes several rooms until he finds the nurses’ station. One of the medical staff is sitting behind the desk, calmly typing away when he leans forward against it. She looks up and smiles.

“Can I help you?” she asks, glancing once at his cast and the hospital bracelet gracing his other wrist then back to meet his eyes.

Elliot teeth attempt to part automatically as he tries to respond, but tiny jolts of pain flare up, reminding him of their current state, and his words end up lost behind metal and swollen tissue. “’M try’n ta f’nd…” She stares at him uncertainly while he attempts to force the words out of his latticed mouth and he realizes she will not understand him. Dammit, he thinks irritably. He has no way of asking where his partner is and he had not even thought to bring the dry erase board for communication. The nurse’s friendly grin is slipping and he is aware that he is probably making her nervous. He makes a writing motion with his hand and shows her his wired mouth.

“Oh,” she says nodding, having an a-ha moment of awareness. She hands him a yellow legal pad and a pen and he clumsily scribbles Olivia Benson – what room? He’s almost entirely certain the woman will not even be able to decipher his illegible left handed writing. “Olivia…Benson?” she efforts, and he nods readily. “Detective Stabler, I take it. Let me check for you.” 

She makes a few clicks of her mouse and types in the name while he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Finally, she looks up, smiling. “She’s on this floor, in room 2080.” He points down the hall he just came from and she affirms his suspicions. “Yes, down there. I’ll let your nurse know where you’ll be.”

Elliot waves his thanks and returns down the tiled corridor with a renewed energy. His partner was next door to him the entire time.

He arrives at the room he’d passed so eagerly before and pauses as he reaches for the door handle. She may be sleeping, and he doesn’t want to disturb her, but he has to see her. He has to know she is still in one piece, still breathing. He turns the knob and thrusts the door open, hungrily eying the image before him to appease his fears.

Munch is sitting in one of the faux-leather seats that only seem to be manufactured for hospitals, and he is turned toward the quiet TV, chin propped up by a few fingers. He looks over at the noise and raises his hand in a wave. “Elliot. Finally awake, I see.”

Elliot moves to Olivia’s side, carefully searching her resting form for any noticeable abnormality. She looks better than he had feared…a nasal cannula has replaced the oxygen mask and the gauze patch taped to her head is clean and new, but he is able to detect the ugly bloom of a bruise underneath it. Her throat is stained with dark, finger-shaped contusions that make him feel simultaneously murderous and sick with fury. He looks back to Munch for any details and the man simply regards him with sympathy and silence.

“I’ she okay?” Elliot asks, surprised that the question is somewhat comprehensible.

“It looks worse than you think,” he says after a moment and the thin man moves with a deep sigh. “The doctor said she has a minor head injury, one cracked rib, and her larynx is swollen, but they think she should be back to her normal self soon. I’ll let the nurses or doctors give you a better explanation.” Munch gestures at the seat he has exited. “Sit down, Elliot. She’s been asking for you all night.”

Something about that makes the already present emotional anguish in his chest bloom into agony, and he moves around the bed and into the chair. He wants to grab her hand and hang onto it as he had during the events of the past day, but he now feels the other man’s eyes and his own trepidation.

Munch pats his left shoulder solemnly. “Since you’re here, I’m going to take off. Get some sleep.” He presses his lips into a thin line, then cracks a grin. “Send us a message if you need anything.” Elliot nods, lifting one side of his mouth slightly.

The soft click of the door closing is all he hears to signify that he and Olivia are alone for the first time since their abrupt awakening together, where they had been forcibly sick with probably the worst hangover on record, and brains completely scrambled by the GHB, and all too aware of what had transpired.

The reminder of what had occurred is still evident on their flesh. He can see remnants of a bite mark peeking out from her hospital gown in the shape of his teeth—small, pink blotches marring the smooth skin of her chest. He feels embarrassment wash over him, and he lightly picks up her hand with his good one, curling his fingers into her palm.

Thirty minutes later he is settled into his location at her side and his hand holds Olivia’s with less discomfort and more resolute determination. He has let his gaze wander to the TV a few times where an infomercial fills the screen. The faint sound of the program’s pitchman is interrupted by the soft rapping of the door. An older nurse saunters in and she looks hardly shocked at all to see him.

“Detective Stabler,” she says in a tone that confirms the suspicion. He acknowledges her with a curt bob of his head. “I know you can’t really speak, but I’m sure you’re wondering about what’s going on with your partner.” Her eyes probe their intertwined hands and he shifts, unexpectedly anxious under her scrutiny. “My name is Jill—I’m the charge nurse on duty. Detective Benson is lucky. If the bullet had hit a fraction of an inch deeper, the wound would have been a lot worse. It’s called a tangential linear fracture, which means the injury caused a tiny crack to the frontal bone. We see this most commonly with deflected gunshot wounds to the head.”

Elliot grimaces at the gauze strapped to her head, gripping Olivia’s hand tighter a moment.

“Fortunately, her condition has improved over the past several hours. Her alertness is better, she’s communicating well, and her neuro checks have improved drastically. We’re very optimistic of a complete recovery. All she’ll really walk away with is a scar to brag to her grandchildren about. She did express the desire to leave AMA, but we informed her that in her state that would be very dangerous.” His grin is once again lop-sided, but this time not because of the swelling, and instead appreciating the bullishness she at times demonstrates that resembles his own. “Detective Benson’s injuries also include a broken rib and the bruises you see around her neck are from the strangulation. It caused a bit of cervical and laryngeal swelling, so she’ll be hoarse and sore, but her symptoms and the bruises will go away over time. We’ll monitor her for any carotid blood clots, but so far she is doing great.”

“Th’nks.” He nods at the nurse, and she takes this as a cue to perform her duties. After jotting down notes and changing bags, she steps out of the room.

~*~

She awakens just as dawn breaks the sky.

Despite feeling dopey and weak, she is still relishing in blissful, painkiller dreamland, which had been administered shortly after finally determining there were no exigent or permanent consequences of the head injury. The rib, however…one swift kick to the side by that jackass and she could have sworn her entire chest was caving in.

The frequent neurological checks had disrupted an otherwise peaceful, pain-free slumber, but she can’t be too irritable. She’s alive. She can only be grateful that Lawrence had had terrible aim, because the bullet had only grazed her head. Had left one hell of an excruciating headache and a laceration that she is sure will scar visibly, despite the little bit of liquid stitching that had sealed up the wound. The alternative to a scar isn’t even worth a second thought. She is fortunate to walk away from the ordeal with her head in tact.

She takes a tentative breath in and her throat feels strangely inflamed; her voice is hoarse, more gravelly than normal. McKinney had bruised her larynx when his burly fingers had attempted to choke the life out of her. Doctors insist that she’ll be all right, thankfully no clots or lasting injury, however, she has to stay put for at least twenty-four hours before she will be allowed discharge, or the medical staff will likely pin her to the bed in restraints and use Ativan to drug her into the stratosphere.

Olivia remembers the night prior, preceding the FBI, DEA, and NYPD big wigs’ inquisition, she had asked her co-workers about Elliot several different and they had all given her the same aggravating answer—that he had just undergone oral surgery—she was definitely curious what necessitated that—and had fallen asleep sometime around eight o’clock and hadn’t budged since then. After waiting a while longer, she had finally given up and allowed herself to do the same.

She pries her eyelids open, and notices her partner instantly. He is slumped down in the chair next to her bed, snoring lightly, arms tucked around his middle. She turns her head carefully. “Elliot?” she whispers huskily, then winces at the painful sound. She touches the skin of her throat tenderly and reaches over, pushing at his right bicep. He shoots upright, tense and confused for a moment until his gaze settles on her. He has a hesitant expression on his face that he wipes at with his available hand. Her eyes trail his form, taking in the cast that covers his arm all the way up to his ring and pinky fingers. He is holding his elbow, mindful of her inquisitive eyes.

“Hey,” she whispers, carefully adjusting herself to sit in a more raised position. Olivia watches him for a moment, noticing that he is pressing his lips together awkwardly, good hand cupping an inflamed cheek. She has become used to interpreting his expressions and movements, searching his mannerisms for clues as to what he is feeling, so she sees the discomfort as something considerably ominous. “Are you okay?” she asks, drawing her eyebrows closer together nervously.

He nods, and then bares his teeth at her, revealing a mouthful of wires. She cringes, making a small, aggrieved noise.

“Oh, God. Your jaw is broken?”

“Mm-hmm.” Elliot shrugs.

She lets a chuckle escape that sounds more like a squeak. “That’s great,” she murmurs.

Elliot automatically attempts to open his mouth, but he halts when he remembers that his jaws cannot part. It sounds like he is pushing his words through mush and both of them flinch at the sound. She knows that he is frustrated, and he will continue to be until the wires are removed which could be for several weeks.

He gives up on verbal communication, and places his left hand on top of hers, holding to her eyes with the solemn deep blue of his own. She thinks how unjust it is for the two of them to go through so much, unable to express how they feel and how to deal with the circumstances for the entire nightmarish event, and then finally sit alone, safe, neither capable of even speaking.

She knows that they cannot ignore the elephant in the room, but she does not know how she can even begin the conversation, and even then, she wonders if it is fair that he will not be able to respond. She can whisper her words, but he is unable to open his mouth.

“Elliot,” she begins, and feels a profound gloom bearing down on her. He blinks, then frowns, and she starts to lose her resolve. He recognizes the change in her expression and he shakes his head. “We need to talk about what happened.”

He shifts, and removes his palm from her hand. The brisk, ventilated air of the hospital room cools her skin. He squeezes the bridge of his nose and moves forward, so that his elbows rest on his knees. The fingers of his good hand fiddle with the stiff material of the cast.

“El—” she warns.

He presses his lips together, looking as though he is going to burst with the need to speak.

“What happened between us…it is what it is. Neither of us can take it back.” She presses against the skin of her throat, flinching at the soreness. “You are my partner and my best friend, and I don’t want one night to ruin it all.”

She tries to say more, but she coughs roughly and he puts a gentle hand on her arm with an insistent expression, willing her to do this later. “Liv, don’. We shuddin’ shpeak.”

Olivia takes a slow breath. “All right. But we will have to do this eventually.”

“I know,” he says in a surprisingly clear sentence. He’ll sound better once his face is back to its normal size.

He’s got a valid reason for dodging the issue, but Olivia knows they won’t be able to hide from this for long. Soon, she will have her voice back, he will have the wires removed, and they will not be able to avoid the inevitable anymore. She fears that the partnership, which has been teetering between outright acrimony and guarded affability for the past year or so, has endured too many foundational cracks. The actions of the past two days have finally caused their working relationship to crumble completely.

Her chest constricts as she studies his brooding figure. How are they going to bounce back? How can they continue to work together?

The truth is…they can’t. Of all the physical ailments, the truth is what hurts the most.


End file.
